Bolos: Honor of the Regiment Part 1
BOLOS: HONOR OF THE REGIMENT.
EDITED BY BILL FAWCETT.
LOST LEGION.
S.M. Stirling
"s.h.i.t," Captain McNaught said.
The map room of Firebase Villa had been dug into the soft friable rock with explosives, then topped with sheet steel and sandbags. It smelled of sweat and bad coffee and electronic components, and the sandbags in the dog-leg entrance were still ripped where a satchel charge--a stick grenade in a three-pound ball of plastique--had been thrown during the attack six months ago.
"Captain?" the communications specialist said.
"Joy, wonder, unconfined happiness, s.h.i.t," the officer snarled, reading the printout again. "Martins, get in here!"
Lieutenant Martins ducked through the entrance of the bunker and flipped up the faceplate of her helmet. The electronics in the crystal sandwich would have made the bunker as bright as the tropical day outside, but also would have turned her face to a nonreflective curve. Human communication depends on more than words alone to carry information, as anyone who meets face-to-face for the first time after telephone conversations learns.
"News?" she said.
"Look." He handed over the paper.
"Aw, s.h.i.t."
"My commandante, is this the right time for the raid?"
Miguel Chavez turned and fired a long burst. The muzzle blast of the AK-74 was deafening in the confined s.p.a.ce of the cave. The other guerilla's body pitched backwards and slammed into the coa.r.s.e limestone wall, blood trailing down past fossilized seash.e.l.ls a hundred and twenty million years old. Pink intestine bulged through the torn fatigues, and the fecal odor was overwhelming.
None of the other guerilla commanders moved, but sweat glistened on their high-cheeked faces. Outside the sounds of the jungle night--and the camp--were stilled for an instant. Sound gradually returned to normal. Two riflemen ducked inside the low cave and dragged the body away by the ankles.
"The Glorious Way shall be victorious!" Chavez said. "We shall conquer!"
The others responded with a shout and a clenched-fist salute.
"I know," Chavez went on, "that some of our comrades are weary. They say: The colossus of the North is reeling. The gringo troops are withdrawing. Why not hide and wait? Let the enemy's internal contradictions win for us. We have fought many years, against the compradore puppet regime and then against the imperialist intervention force.
"Comrades," he went on, "this is defeatism. When the enemy retreats, we advance. The popular ma.s.ses must see that the enemy are withdrawing in defeat. They must see that the People's Army of the Glorious Way has chased the gringos from the soil of San Gabriel. Then they will desert the puppet regime, which has attempted to regroup behind the shelter of the imperialist army.
"Our first objective," he went on, "is to interdict the resupply convoy from the coast. We will attack at-"
"Yeah, it's nothing but indigs," Martins said, keeping her voice carefully neutral. "The indigs, and you and me. That's a major part of the problem."
Will you look at that mother, she thought.
The new tank was huge. Just standing beside it made her want to step back; it wasn't right for a self-propelled object to be this big.
The Mark III was essentially a four-sided pyramid with the top lopped off, but the simple outline was bent and smoothed where the armor was sloped for maximum deflection; and jagged where sensor-arrays and weapons jutted from the brutal ma.s.siveness of the machine. Beneath were two sets of double tracks, each nearly six feet broad, each supported on eight interleaved road wheels. Between them they underlay nearly half the surface of the vehicle. She laid a hand on the flank, and the quivering, slightly greasy feel of live machinery came through her fingerless glove, vibrating up her palm to the elbow.
"So we don't have much in the way of logistics," she went on. Try f.u.c.king none. Just her and the Captain and eighty effectives, and occasionally they got spare parts and ammo through from what was supposed to be headquarters down here on the coast. "Believe me, up in the boonies mules are high-tech these days. We're running our UATVs"--Utility All Terrain Vehicles--"on kerosene from lamps cut with the local slash, when someone doesn't drink it before we get it."
The tank commander's name was Vinatelli; despite that he was pale and blond and a little plump, his scalp almost pink through the close-cropped hair. He looked like a Norman Rockwell painting as he grinned at her and slapped the side of his tank. He also looked barely old enough to shave.
"Oh, no problem. I know things have gotten a little disorganized-"
Yeah, they had to use artillery to blast their way back into New York after the last riots, she thought.
"-but we won't be hard on your logistics. This baby has the latest, ultra-top-secret-burn-before-reading-then-shoot-yourself stuff.
"Ionic powerplant." At her blank look, he expanded: "Ion battery. Most compact power source ever developed--radical stuff, ma'am. Ten years operation at combat loads; and you can recharge from anything, sunlight included. That's a little diffuse, but we've got five acres of photovol screen in a dispenser. Markee"--he blushed when she raised a brow at the nickname--"can go anywhere, including under water.
"We've got a weapons mix like you wouldn't believe, everything from antipersonnel to air defense. The Mark III runs its own diagnostics, it drives itself, its...o...b..ard AI can perform about fifteen or twenty combat tasks without anybody in the can. Including running patrols. We've got maps of every inch of terrain in the hemisphere, and inertial and satellite systems up the wazoo, so we can perform fire-support or any of that good s.h.i.t all by ourselves. Then there's the armor. Synthetic molecules, long-chain ferrous-chrome alloy, density-enhanced and pretty well immune to anything but another Mark III."
Bethany Martins ran a hand through her close-cropped black hair. It came away wet with sweat; the Atlantic coast lowlands of San Gabriel were even hotter than the interior plateau, and much damper, to which the capital of Ciudad Roco added its own peculiar joys of mud, rotting garbage and human wastes--the sewer system had given up the ghost long ago, about the time the power grid did. Sweat was trickling down inside her high-collared suit of body-armor as well, and chafing everywhere. p.r.i.c.kly heat was like poverty in San Gabriel, a constant condition of life to be lived with rather than a problem to be solved.
She looked around. The plaza up from the harbor--G.o.d alone knew how they'd gotten the beast ash.o.r.e in that crumbling madhouse, probably sunk the ships and then drove it out--was full of a dispirited crowd. Quite a few were gawking at the American war-machine, despite the ungentle urging of squads of Order and Security police to move along. Others were concentrating on trying to sell each other bits and pieces of this and that, mostly cast-offs. Nothing looked new except the vegetables, and every pile of bananas or tomatoes had its armed guard.
Her squad was watching from their UATVs, light six-wheeled trucks built so low to the ground they looked squashed, with six balloon wheels of spun-alloy mesh. The ceramic diesels burbled faintly, and the crews leaned out of the turtletop on their weapons. There were sacks of supplies on the back decks, tied down with netting, and big five-liter cans of fuel.
At least we got something out this trip.
"What I'd like to know," she said to Vinatelli, "is why GM can build these, but we've got to keep a Guard division in Detroit."
"You haven't heard?" he said, surprised. "They pulled out of Detroit. Just stationed some blockforces around it and cut it loose."
Acid churned in Martin's stomach. Going home was looking less and less attractive, even after four years in San Gabriel. The problem was that San Gabriel had gone from worse to worst in just about the same way. The difference was that it hadn't as far to fall.
"We're supposed to 'demonstrate superiority' and then pull out," Martins said. "We kick some Glorio b.u.t.t, so it doesn't look like we're running away when we run away."
The twisting hill-country road looked different from the height of the Mark III's secondary hatch. The jungle was dusty gray thorn-trees, with some denser vegetation in the low valleys. She could see it a lot better from the upper deck, but it made her feel obscenely vulnerable. Or visible, which was much the same thing. The air was full of the smell of the red dust that never went away except in the rainy season, and of the slightly spicy scent of the succulents that made up most of the local biota. Occasionally they pa.s.sed a farm, a whitewashed adobe shack with a thatch or tile roof, with scattered fields of maize and ca.s.sava. The stores in the few towns were mostly shuttered, their inhabitants gone to swell the slums around the capital--or back to their home farms out in the countryside, if they had a little more foresight.
Everyone was keeping their distance from the Mark III, too, as soon as it loomed out of the huge dust-cloud. So much for stealth, she thought, with light-infantry instincts. The Glorious Way will be laughing fit to p.i.s.s their pants when we try to catch them with this mother.
"Only thing is," Martins went on, "we don't need a Mark III to kick Glorio b.u.t.t. We've been doing it for three years. Maybe they could send us some replacements, and a couple of Cheetah armored cars, like we used to have, or some air support, or decent supplies so we didn't have to live off the local economy like a bunch of G.o.ddam feudal bandits. All of which wouldn't have cost half as much as sending this hunk of tin down to roar around the boonies looking purty and scaring the goats."
The rest of the convoy were keeping their distance as well. Her UATV was well ahead, willing to take point to keep out of the dust plume. The indig troops and the supplies were further back, willing to eat dust to keep away from the churning six-foot treads. Kernan's rig was tail-end Charlie, just in case any of the indigs got ideas about dropping out of the convoy. Not that she'd mind the loss of the so-called government troops, but the supplies were another matter.
She looked down. The newbie was staring straight ahead in his recliner, two spots of color on his cheeks and his back rigid.
"h.e.l.l, kid," she said. "I'm not mad at you. You look too young to be one of the s.h.i.theads who poured the whole country down a rathole."
He relaxed fractionally. "Maybe things'll get better with President Flemming," he said unexpectedly. "He and Margrave are pretty smart guys."
"And maybe I'm the Queen of Oz," Martins said. This one still believes in politicians? she thought. G.o.d, they are robbing cradles.
Or possibly just being very selective. You got enough to eat in the Army, at least--even down here in San Gabriel, admittedly by application of ammunition rather than money. Maybe they were recruiting extremely trusting farmboy types so's not to chance another mutiny like Houston.
Christ knew there were times when she'd felt like mutiny herself, if there had been anyone to mutiny against down here.
She put her eyes back on the surroundings. More thornbush; she clicked her faceplate down and touched the IR and sonic scan controls. Nothing but animal life out in the scrub, and not much of that. Certainly no large animals beyond the odd extremely wary peccary, not with the number of hungry men with guns who'd been wandering around here for the last decade or so.
"Why don't you shut the hatch, ma'am?" Vinatelli said.
"Because I like to see what's going on," Martins snapped. "This is bandido country."
"You can see it all better from down here, El-T," he urged.
Curious, she dropped down the rungs to the second padded seat in the interior of the hull. The hatch closed with a sigh of hydraulics, and the air cooled to a comfortable seventy-five, chilly on her wet skin. It smelled of neutral things, filtered air and almost-new synthetics, flavored by the gamy scent of one unwashed lieutenant of the 15th Mountain Division. Her body armor made the copilot's seat a bit snug, but otherwise it was as comfortable as driving a late-model Eurocar on a good highway. Martins was in her late twenties, old enough to remember when such things were possible, even if rare.
"Smooth ride," she said, looking around.
There were the expected armored conduits and readouts; also screens s.p.a.ced in a horseshoe around the seats. They gave a three-sixty view around the machine; one of them was dialed to x5 magnification, and showed the lead UATV in close-up. Sergeant Jenkins was leaning on the grenade launcher, his eggplant-colored skin skimmed with red dust, his visor swivelling to either side. There was no dust on it; the electrostatic charge kept anything in finely divided particles off it.
"Maglev suspension," Vinatelli said. "No direct contact between the road-wheel pivot axles and the hull. The computer uses a sonic sensor on the terrain ahead and compensates automatically. There's a hydrogas backup system."
He touched a control, and colored pips sprang out among the screens.
"This's why we don't have to have a turret," he said. "The weapons turn, not the gunner--the sensors and computers integrate all the threats and funnel it down here."
"How'd you keep track of it all?" she asked. "h.e.l.l of a thing, trying to chose between fifteen aiming points when it's. .h.i.tting the fan."
"I don't, anymore'n I have to drive," Vinatelli pointed out.
It was then she noticed his hands weren't on the controls. Her instinctive lunge of alarm ended a fraction of a second later, when her mind overrode it.
"This thing's steering itself?" she said.
"Yes ma'am," he said. "Aren't you, Markee?"
"Yes, Viniboy," a voice said. Feminine, sweet and sultry.
Martins looked at him. He shrugged and spread his hands. "Hey, it's a perfectly good voice. I spend a lot of time in here, you know?" He waved a hand at the controls. "Best AI in the business--software package just came in, and it's a lot better than before. Voice recognition and tasking. All I have to do is tell it who to shoot and who to like."
"I hope you've told it to like me, corporal," she said flatly.
"Ah--Markee, register Martins, Lieutenant Bethany M, serial number-" he continued with the identification. "Lieutenant Martins is superior officer on site. Log and identify."
Martins felt a brief flicker of light touch her eyes; retina prints. The machine would already have her voiceprint, fingerprints and ECG patterns.
"Acknowledged, Vini. h.e.l.lo, Lieutenant Martins. I'm honored to be under your command for this mission. What are our mission parameters?"
"Getting home," Martins said shortly. Talking machinery gave her the creeps.
"Acknowledged, Lieutenant Martins. I will help you get home."
Vinatelli noticed her stiffen. From the tone of his voice, it was a familiar reaction. "It's just a real good AI, El-Tee," he said soothingly. "Expert program with parallel-processing learning circuits. It's not like it was alive or anything, it just sort of imitates it."
The machine spoke: "Don't you love me any more, Vini?" The sweet husky voice was plaintive.
Vinatelli blushed again, this time to the roots of his hair. "I put that in, ma'am. You know, I spend-"
"-a lot of time alone in here," Martins filled in.
"Hey, El-T," the young noncom said, in a voice full of false cheerfulness. "You want a c.o.ke?"
"You've got c.o.ke in here?" she asked.
He turned in his seat, pushing up the crash framework, and opened a panel. "Yeah, I got regular, cla.s.sic, diet, Pepsi and Jolt. Or maybe a ham sandwich?"
Fan-f.u.c.king-tastic, Martins thought. She looked again at the screen ahead of her; Jenkins was taking a swig out of his canteen, and spitting dust-colored water over the side of the UATV. Chickens struggled feebly in the net-covered baskets lashed to the rear decking. She felt a sudden nausea at the thought of being in here, in with the screens and the air-conditioning and fresh ham sandwiches. The thing could probably play you 3-D'ed ancient movies with p.o.r.no inserts on one of the screens, too. d.a.m.ned if I can see what it's got to do with fighting.
"I'm bailing out of this popcan," she said. "Unit push." Her helmet clicked. "Jenkins, I'm transferring back to the UATV."
She heard a c.o.ke can pop and fizz as she slid out of the hatchway.
"What's it like?" the big noncom said. He didn't face around; they were coming up on the Remo bridge, and all three of the soldiers in the back of the UATV were keeping their eyes on station. So were the driver and those in the front.
"It's a f.u.c.king cruise ship, Tops. Economy cla.s.s, there's no swimming pool."
"Big mother," Jenkins said; his position at the rear of the vehicle gave him a view of the one hundred and fifty tons of it. Even driving at thirty miles an hour they could feel it shaking the earth as it drove. "Surprised it doesn't make bigger ruts."
"Lot of track area," Martins said. "Not much more surface pressure than a boot. Though G.o.d d.a.m.n me if I know what we're going to do with it. It isn't exactly what you'd call suitable for running around forty-degree slopes and jungle."
"Hey, El-Tee, neither am I," Riverez said, from the other machine-gun.
"Shut up, Pineapple," she said--the gunner was named for his abundant acne scars.
"h.e.l.l, we can run air-conditioners and VCRs off it," Jenkins said. "Christmas tree lights. Dig a swimming pool. Maybe rig up a sauna."
"Can it, Tops," Martins said.
The road was running down into one of the steep valleys that broke the rolling surface of the plateau. There was a small stream at the bottom of it, and a concrete-and-iron bridge that might be nearly a century old. The air grew damper and slightly less hot as they went under the shelter of the few remaining big trees. There were a few patches of riverine jungle left in the interior of San Gabriel, but most--like this--had been cut over for mahogany and tropical cedar, and then the slopes farmed until the soil ran down into the streams. Really thick scrub had reclaimed the valley sides when the peasants gave up on their plots of coffee and cannabis. Although the latter was still cheap and abundant, one of the things that made life here possible at all.
"Oh, s.h.i.t," Martins said suddenly, and went on the unit push. "Halt. Halt convoy. Halto."
As usual, some of the indigs weren't listening. The Mark III provided a more than usually efficient cork, and this time they didn't have to worry about someone driving an ancient Tatra diesel up their b.u.t.ts. Silence fell, deafening after the crunching, popping sound of heavy tires on gravel and dirt. The dust plume carried on ahead of them for a dozen meters, gradually sinking down to add to the patina on the roadside vegetation.
"What's the problem?" Jenkins asked.
"The b.l.o.o.d.y Mark III, that's the problem," she replied, staring at the bridge.