Steel Gauntlet (8 page)

The change took two and a half minutes. The crew came back to the gun, lowered its elevation to horizontal, manhandled a man-size power pack into the breech, and fired at a patch of forest two kilometers away. The Marines in the classroom imagined they could hear a whoosh as the one-hundred-meter-wide swath of woods went up, though the trid didn’t have sound.

“That’s what an M-147 looks like and a couple basics of what it can do. Now that you’re impressed, I’ll tell you how it’s used.” Corporal Henry spent the next two hours reciting more details about artillery uses and procedures for the Marines of Company L than most of them wanted to know.

“Be back here in ten minutes,” Gunny Thatcher said when the corporal finished his introduction to artillery. The classroom emptied faster than a gun crew could load, aim, and fire a projectile round.

Ten minutes later the gunny was standing front and center, looking at his watch. On the dot of ten minutes he looked up and saw the last man scrambling back into his seat. “I said ten minutes, MacIlargie,” he snarled, “not ten minutes and two seconds.” Third platoon’s PFC MacIlargie gave the gunny his best “Who, me?” look. Thatcher returned the favor with a “You’re on my list” look. MacIlargie wished he was in his chameleons so the company gunny couldn’t see him.

“Now,” Thatcher addressed the company, secretly pleased that everybody was back so promptly,

“Sergeant Bojanowski is going to introduce you to Marine Air.”

“Most of you have seen Marine Raptors in action,” Bojanowski began as he flicked on the trid. He wondered why so many of them flinched at that. He didn’t know that most of third platoon had been on the wrong end of a two-Raptor strafing run a year earlier during a peacekeeping mission on Elneal. The trid projection showed a flight of two Raptors flying arabesques around each other far above ground.

“The A-8E Raptor is the Marine Corps’ vertical/short takeoff/landing aircraft,” Bojanowski continued.

“It has an effective combat radius of one thousand kilometers. That means it can fly a thousand kilometers, deliver support to the Marines on the ground, fight off an enemy air attack, and have enough power left to fly a thousand kilometers back to base. The Raptor’s top speed is classified, but it’s well in excess of Mach. Its armament consists of four plasma guns similar to those in the gun squad of an infantry platoon.”

In the trid projection, the two Raptors sailed low over the ground with their guns flaming a company-size formation of man-size targets. When the aircraft completed the strafing run along the long axis of the formation, hardly any of the targets were left uncharred.

“The Raptor also has plasma cannons.” This time the Raptors flew almost straight down from a great height. At two thousand meters they sprayed bursts from their cannons. The aircraft shuddered visibly as vernier jets cut in and bounced them back heavenward.

“In case you’re wondering,” Bojanowski said dryly, “the Raptors are subject to fifteen g’s in that maneuver. The pilots wear special flight suits and are hooked into life-support systems that keep them from being injured or blacking out.” The plasma bolts from the cannons looked huge, and the men compared them to the bolts fired by the blasters they used. When the bolts hit the ground, they burst into fireballs more than twenty meters wide. When the fireballs dissipated, ten-meter craters could be seen in rocky ground. A wooden structure that had been struck by two bolts was turned to ash before it could burst into visible flame.

“I only wish we had a tank on hand to show you what one of those babies can do to armor,” Bojanowski said. “Now, all the attack aircraft in the world won’t do the infantryman a damn bit of good unless he can tell the pilots where he is and what he wants killed. I’m going to begin to teach you how to do that now...”

Sergeant Bojanowski talked for two hours, complete with trid demonstrations. In the back of the classroom, Staff Sergeant Charlie Bass, third platoon’s sergeant, nodded to himself. He’d wondered why Gunny Thatcher had the artillery corporal talk first, and now he understood. The trid projections of the Raptors in action were more exciting to watch than the artillery presentation. It kept the men’s attention better when they were beginning to tire.

When the initial air lecture was over, Gunny Thatcher took the floor again. “It’s seventeen hours,” he announced. “Time for mess call. Be back here at eighteen hours.” He gave the men a few seconds to express surprise and disappointment, then told them, “If any of you were expecting liberty call, you’re badly mistaken. We’ve got six months worth of schooling to cram into two weeks, first here in the classroom, then in the field. You’re going to be working, studying, and learning around the clock for the duration. You’ll think you’re fortunate when you manage more than four hours sleep in twenty-four.

Dismissed for chow. See you back here in one hour. MacIlargie, that doesn’t mean one hour and two seconds.”

One hour later Sergeant Bojanowski flicked the trid back on and said, “Here’s what armed hoppers can do...”

CHAPTER 6

Joe Dean looked aghast at the landscape. “I thought there was too much snow in New Oslo,” he moaned. He shivered in his mottled-white winter gear. Even growing up in New Rochester on Old Earth with its severe winters, and visiting nearby Buffalo and Watertown, he’d never seen so much snow so early in the season.

Hammer Schultz hawked into a snowdrift twice his height. “Ain’t seen nothing yet,” he said. “Wait’ll full winter gets here.”

Dean turned to Schultz, a horrified expression on his face. Two meters of snow was understandable in the dead of winter, but so early? The wind swept the snow cover smooth and melted its surface into such a brittle crust a man could walk on it, but if he stepped too hard on a thin spot of crust, he’d sink into soft snow to his chest or deeper.

“Hammer’s right,” Corporal Leach said. “Last winter we had to save four men from the platoon from drowning in the deep snow. One man from second squad, he rotated out before you got here, had a leg, an arm, and several ribs broken when a snowslide from the barracks roof hit him.”

“No.” Dean gave his fire team leader a terrified look.

Schultz hawked again. “Yep,” he said. “Wasn’t even a bad winter.” Leach nodded. “Only one serious casualty and four near drownings. Not bad at all; didn’t have to bury anybody.”

“Don’t let them spook you, Dean,” Sergeant Hyakowa said as he walked up. “We hardly ever have broken bones from falling snow, and the biggest danger of dying is from exposure.” He eyed Dean’s cold weather gear to make sure it was sealed properly. “You do have to be careful about falling in over your head, though. Smothering is a real possibility.” He dropped the infra screen on his helmet and slowly pivoted to see where the rest of the squad was. They weren’t wearing chameleons, but to the naked eye the mottled white of their winter gear had the same effect. Because the winter field uniform kept body heat in, heat signatures were lessened as well. But everybody was standing in the open, and he spotted his squad members easily enough.

“First squad, on me,” he called out.

In a moment the ten men of first squad, third platoon, Company L, 34th FIST, were gathered together in a tight clump, symbolically if not actually sharing body warmth. Even though none of them faced outward, all of the more experienced members of the squad spent more time looking past whoever they faced than they did looking at each other. Constant awareness of one’s surroundings is a vital skill for an infantryman, so the experienced men watched for any sign of enemy, even though the only enemy they faced on Thorsfinni’s World was the weather—and some defenseless targets set up for the artillery spotting practice they were about to conduct.

“Cheer up, Deano,” Leach said, poking his junior man on the shoulder. “We might be in snow as deep as we are tall, but at least we’re out of the damn classroom, right?” Dean smiled weakly. “Yeah. No more trying to look awake when we’re asleep.” He began to brighten. They would begin practicing the things Corporal Henry had been lecturing about.

“Dean”—Hyakowa drew his name out—“you’re still too boot to know how to look awake when you’re asleep. That’s why I’m going to make sure you get tested on something you slept through.” Dean’s brightening mood crashed back into darkness and despair.

“Lima Three-five, Lima Three-five,” Dean said nervously into his helmet comm unit. “This is One-one-three.” The simple call signs identified Staff Sergeant Charlie Bass, the third platoon sergeant, as the recipient, and Dean, third man in the first fire team of first squad, as the caller. “I have targets.

Request patch-through to Gun Control. Over.”

“One-one-three, this is Lima Three-five. Roger your request for patch-through. Wait one.” For this first exercise, the radio call signs and procedure were kept simple and formal. Both men knew they wouldn’t be talking that way on the radio under fire.

In a moment a new voice came over the radio to Dean, relayed through the platoon’s main communications net. “Lima Three-one-one-three, this is Gun Control. Over.”

“Gun Control, this is Lima, uh, Three-one-one-three.” Dean had to think about his call sign—he’d never used one so long and involved. Then he forgot what he was supposed to say next.

“What is your position, One-one-three? Over.” The artillery radioman obviously understood Dean’s confusion.

Dean looked at the unfamiliar geo-position-locator. It was unfamiliar to him because the GPL was normally a squad leader’s equipment. The GPL was tied into a planet-girdling satellite system that gave his position within five meters. “I am at....” He read off the alphanumeric string that gave his map coordinates. Then he remembered what he was supposed to say next. “Target, earthwork structure.” He looked at the sod-covered earthworks that was his target through the range-finder shield on his helmet.

“Azimuth, three-two-four. Range, one-one-zero-zero. Over.”

“One-one-three,” Gun Control immediately read back the information. “Confirm. Over.”

“Confirmed, Gun Control,” Dean said after he checked the numbers. He was concentrating on the mechanics of calling in artillery, and his radio procedure was slipping.

“Lima Three-one-one-three, one spotter round on its way. Advise. Over.” Over the radio, Dean heard the blast of a howitzer firing.

Dean peered intently at the target and began counting the seconds. He knew how far away the artillery was and how long it should take for a round to travel that distance. Still, he flinched in surprise when he heard the sharp crack of the supersonic round as it passed overhead, and almost simultaneously saw the flash of light and eruption of snow thrown up by the explosion. He quickly analyzed what he saw and compared it to vids he’d seen of artillery rounds hitting different surfaces. The way the snow flew up in a broad cone told him the round had been fused for explosion on contact and had gone all the way to the frozen dirt surface before it went off.

“Gun Control, adjust,” he said excitedly. “Right one hundred. On my azimuth, up seventy-five.” His helmet’s range finder told him the round hit a hundred meters to the left of his aiming point and seventy-five meters short. “Fire one spotter.”

“Right one hundred, up seventy-five,” the Gun Control radioman repeated. “One spotter on its way.” This time the sonic crack and simultaneous explosion didn’t make Dean flinch, though he was surprised that they occurred exactly when he expected. This round struck well within the kill radius of his aiming point.

“Gun Control, you’re on target. Fire for effect. Over.”

“Lima Three-one-one-three. This is Gun Control. We are on target. Fire for effect. Advise when target is destroyed. Over.”

“Gun Control, Lima Three-one-one-three will advise when target is destroyed.” One round came downrange and hit within meters of the last. For this exercise, one round was all that would be fired to simulate a barrage. Dean stood, grinning proudly. The first time he’d ever called in artillery he’d hit his target with the second round.

“Not too bad,” Corporal Miller said a few meters to Dean’s left rear. “Of course, if that was a moving target, you would have missed it completely.” Miller was more pleased than he let on, though. He knew that the artillerymen deliberately missed with their first round; Dean’s instructions had been precise enough that the first shot would have been metal on target if they’d been firing for real.

On a different range a hundred kilometers to the south, Claypoole studied the drone that was his target. It was big and it was gray and it was scooting along the surface of the snow at a speed his range finder translated as more than one hundred kilometers per hour. He remembered what he’d been taught in the classroom, and knew that if the drone was traveling in a straight line, he could call anything down on it. But the drone was zigging and zagging, and once in a while threw itself violently into reverse. But it didn’t have any passengers, and its driver was safely operating it from a steady seat at a console inside a shelter a hundred meters to Claypoole’s rear.

“Go to it, Lance Corporal,” Sergeant Bojanowski called from his observer position. “You’ve got to kill that baby before it kills you.”

“Right,” Claypoole muttered. He didn’t know how he was going to manage. Well, here goes, he thought. “Fireball One,” he said into his radio. “This is Spotter Ten.” They were using a different communications protocol for air. “I have a target. Over.”

“Spotter Ten, Fireball One. Go.” No airman, not even a hopper pilot, was going to use formal radio procedure—it wasn’t dashing enough.

“My position...” Claypoole didn’t have the same nervousness about giving instructions that had bothered Dean, his worry was different. He rattled off his coordinates. “Target, MBT. Azimuth, one-seven-three. Range, six-five-seven-zero. Vector, zero-eight-six. Speed, one-zero-two.

Maneuvering. Over.” He didn’t know where the hopper was. He couldn’t hear it, and suspected that even if he stood up and looked around, he wouldn’t see it. He had to give his and the drone’s relative positions so the pilot would know where to look for the target.

The hopper pilot repeated the numbers, then said, “Orienting. Splash color.” Claypoole planted the laser pointer on his shoulder and sighted on the drone. Bingo, he nailed it on the first try! He tracked the movement of the drone and kept the beam of light on it.