Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 33

"Our troops advanced today without losing a foot of ground."

—Alleged communique during
the Spanish Civil War

Kendra got a brief personal note in one of her daily loads. It read, "Logistics to beat logistics. Brilliant. N." She assumed that was Naumann. So he at least was alive. That was hopeful. She missed her unit and wished for some way to rejoin them, but slogging on foot across several hundred kilometers of rough, hostile terrain did not appeal. She still had no word of Rob or Marta. Had they cleared the base? Or been vaporized?

She sighed, rubbed her eyes and ran more calculations. Where to hit next? It wouldn't do to create a pattern, so she decided to hit some more traditional targets. That posed risk, but so did everything, and this was a war after all.

The intelligence download and local observations showed another force moving to build a Forward Operating Location within reach of the north villages. The goal was clearly to cut off Delph' and Jefferson from any support and simply take them the old-fashioned way—by siege. She wondered why they simply didn't blockade traffic, then realized the answer: they couldn't. There was no air control, so there was no way to stop flights. Stopping every flight would stop the flow of food the UN itself was stealing. Well, buying with scrap paper that was worthless. Nor were there sufficient personnel to stop every flight. The UN couldn't just shoot them down.

It was really awkward trying to fight a war as a "liberator," when one depended on good press and the goodwill of the populace being liberated. The rebels had no such hindrance. Any good press was a win, bad press wasn't really a loss and they were free to maraud as they saw fit. Her mind buzzed with schemes and calculations. It was an exhilarating experience and she slept very little as she figured her strategy.

Near Jefferson Starport, which had been converted to a UN military launch facility, a reservist of the FMF lay in wait. He was in deep, cold mud, eaten by insects until welts covered his face and hands and very, very bored. None of this bothered him and little of it impinged on his higher thoughts. It was simply the environment he was in. All that mattered were the incoming targets. A flight of four fixed wings had lifted off more than a div earlier. They should be returning soon . . . and there they were.

The best time to hit enemy aircraft was while they returned from a mission, low on fuel and munitions, potentially damaged and with tired, cranky pilots likely to make fatal errors. Since they had no reason to expect trouble, the aircraft in question were following their normal approach vector.

Make that lesson number one, the soldier thought to himself. Never be predictable.

The craft were staggered out, clearly visible in his hooded binoculars, and the lead one was on approach to the abbreviated strip. Fixed wings needed more room than vertols to operate, but could carry heavier loads. It was a fair tradeoff, but in this case posed a risk as yet unconsidered by the invaders.

The soldier raised his weapon—a professional infantry missile launcher—sighted carefully and fired, reloaded and fired again in seconds. Without waiting to see if the missiles found their mark, he rose to a crouch and began wading closer to the flightline at an oblique angle.

The first missile locked on its target, the lead craft, which detected it, jinked and dropped. This placed it closer to the second missile, which had a far cooler exhaust and better ECM. It was the true warrior here, not its decoy cousin that had expended itself to draw attention away. The Sentinel's systems detected it, too, but were hampered by internal preprograms. It wouldn't evade closer to the launch point, couldn't drop lower and couldn't alter speed drastically without aborting the landing it was attempting. The cybernetic thoughts froze for a moment of machine time as it considered, then lit a warning in the pilot's environment.

The pilot saw the flicker at the edge of his vision, moved to take human control, but was slower than the artificial synapses of the machine and too late. The second missile passed overhead at high speed and detonated. Its self-forged warhead slammed down through the lighter armor of the top surface, shredding an engine. There were two engines and the craft would ordinarily have corrected immediately with more thrust to the other one, but it was on manual. The machine moved to retake control, the pilot hesitated in shock and the already stressed craft dropped slightly lower. It impacted the runoff, not hard, but hard enough to shatter the frame and injure the pilot. Warnings squawked and the other pilots aborted their approaches.

The terrain was not conducive to a ground search. ACVs would have trouble with the boulders and deep spots, wheeled vehicles would be mired and infantry was just not a concept the UN was currently embracing. A sensor sweep of the launch area found nothing and the decision was made that the rebel had departed. The craft resumed their approach.

The third missile was launched virtually at touchdown and the target in question couldn't dodge as it tried to land. The missile caught the target near the cockpit and the pilot's ejection seat kicked in automatically. He would survive, but the wreckage of his Sentinel, combined with that already clogging the runoff, made the surface a hazard.

At this point, bureaucracy became the enemy. The runway was technically unserviceable, but the Sentinels did not need its entire length by a wide margin. It would be safe to land beyond the damage, once the shooter was contained, but to do so would officially be a violation of safety procedures. If a craft was damaged due to wreckage, it would be blamed on whoever authorized a landing on the "unserviceable" surface. The officer in charge of flight ops called up the chain of command for a decision, the security officer called the external security unit for them to deal with the shooter, and the pilots waited, fuel diminishing rapidly.

The Freeholder was ready to escape, be captured or killed at this point. He'd had his two shots and was departing the area rapidly. He knew there was a margin of safety in his schedule, but also knew that luck was not a factor one could depend on. He slogged through the mire, getting closer to the river where a small punt waited, and hoped for the best.

It was true that troops in powered armor were the best means of dealing with the shooter. It was true also that not using a resource would cause fingers to be pointed after the fact. It was therefore decided, with all bureaucratic logic, to send a squad out to clear the area. This took about forty-five minutes, from call to suitup to actual deployment across the flightline with proper safety precautions and checklists. The soldier was gone by then, but his legacy lingered slightly longer.

The two remaining Sentinels were low on fuel. A ranking officer had to decide whether to try to divert to another facility, risk landing amid wreckage and response vehicles or attempt to refuel in air and wait. The wing commander made the logical decision to simply make a downwind landing from the runway's other end, with precautions for the wreckage, and gave the order to do so. It was too late.

Both craft ran out of fuel as they orbited around to make the landing and the pilots decided not to ride their crippled aerial steeds into the swamp. They ejected and were soon rescued by the squad of infantry returning from their no-joy search for the missileer. Their craft were destroyed, enmired and unsalvageable.

Several days later, the soldier crept back through the oily slime around the craft and removed their IFFs and a handful of useful circuitry for intelligence analysis. He shook his head in disbelief. If a Freehold craft was deemed unrecoverable, it was slagged to prevent precisely this type of intel gathering.

Kendra's local insurgents roved around in small groups, leaving enough bodies to tend the farms. It took a few weeks for all of the adults to get a taste of combat and Kendra aged ten years inside. She was terrified of the possibility of an informer.

Kyle assured her that was impossible. "Not these people, not here. We're even more independent than the city dwellers. We hate even the suggestion of government meddling. And don't make the mistake of thinking of us as ignorant farmers. We've studied everything from the history of agriculture to business to chemistry. These people are solid," he said.

She believed him, but also knew enough mathematics to be certain there was at least one rat in the area. She hoped she was wrong.

She personally led most of the patrols until Dak convinced her that he, Sandra and Kyle had enough experience in the brush to avoid detection. The strain was wearing on her and was even worse when she wasn't leading the operation in question. Nothing she did helped her to relax and she wondered how long it would be before the stress caused her to crack.

The operations were getting harder, also. Every trick they used was, of course, quickly noted and defended against by the UN troops. Whether or not the bureaucracy allowed it, the people in question were not entirely stupid, those who survived a few missions were quite competent and the skills they'd used to bypass "the book" in peacetime were put to use in this new arena. Their motivation was the best available: survival.

Kendra led a harassment mission against the nearest firebase the UN was constructing. The end plan was to have a vertol contingent and a couple of artillery pieces placed in each of several overlapping circles to cover a large radius around every town. The insurgents were desperately working to keep the available support to a minimum for their own survival.

The firebase project was actually north of the farms and was in a broad prairie of tangled weeds and brush. There were no good enfilades or overlooks to use and no thick woods to hide from observation. Modern sensors would handily pick them up in the brush and it was doubtful they'd get close enough to do any real damage. A mortar would be of great use, but they had none. Her grenades lacked the range and were too valuable to waste on difficult targets. Their best option was to set traps along the ground route. Since the ground convoys were large and well protected, the most practical approach was to disable a vehicle and take a few potshots. The chance of inflicting serious casualties was slim, but it would slow things down and that by itself might prove useful.

Dak dug out some of his precious explosives, needed also for clearing boulders and trees on the farm, and Kendra called up diagrams of fuses and triggers. Kyle studied them briefly and assured her he could manufacture them. Once all components were ready came the task of setting the trap. It required stealth and deception, as well as painful labor.

Vikki drove them as close as was deemed safe and the three of them rolled out the back of the truck as it slowed for a bend. The UN was unlikely to observe a vehicle closely, but stopping in the middle of nowhere would attract attention if anyone was watching the area via satellite, aircraft or observation post. They bounced to the ground, Kendra bruising her pelvis painfully in the process, and shimmied into tall brush. Once safely in, they threw up camouflaged and heat-disrupting veils to sleep under and settled in to slap at bugs for the day.

That night, they spread out and began walking. The few fused roads out here were laid in approximate grid squares and they had a hike through rough terrain of five thousand meters. Using night vision of varying quality to find their way and keep their distance, they began slogging. They were unarmed, in case of discovery. Assuming they either finished or could ditch their deadly packages before capture, they would be in a much better position to deny involvement. Kendra doubted it would work, but to not do so would definitely cause problems in an emergency.

They meandered in the general direction of the target, doing their best to mimic animal movements. They stopped and started, cast about and moved in convoluted paths. Progress was tedious, frustrating, caused numerous aches, and they were quickly cold and wet as fog and dew rolled in. Prickly weeds, tangling bush and burrs and roots impeded progress. Near midnight, a springing sound of undergrowth caused Kendra to wheel about, drawing the machete she carried as her only weapon. She saw movement and felt a vicious tug at her calves and several sharp stings.

"Firethorns!" she whispered hoarsely to herself, then lay still, wincing in pain as the patch finished coiling. It dragged at her wounds, scratching across the fabric of her pants as she closed her eyes against tears of agony. Once she was sure it was done, she carefully drew out a folding tool and commenced cutting herself free.

She cursed as she did so, both in pain and because she could smell the dank, rotten stink of the decay beneath the patch where other, less fortunate creatures were slowly turning into fertilizer. Even in the chill night, insects buzzed about, feasting on the refuse. It was a stupid greenhorn mistake and she should have known better. The other two had skirted this area, but she'd cut across to avoid following an existing route and to save time.

Free at last, she sat back gingerly and began dumping anesthetic and disinfectant into the wounds. Her legs looked as if a large cat had shredded them, with scratches and seeping punctures all over. At least tetanus hadn't gotten much of a foothold here, although she was immunized. She wasn't sure when she was due for a booster. Maybe Vikki had some.

She rose painfully to her feet, feeling the wounds begin to inflame already. She pushed sorely on and hoped the swelling wouldn't impede her too much.

They did reach their objective before dawn and waited nervously for the first gray tinges across the broad coastal plain. She'd spent a long time convincing the others that UN doctrine would hold through almost anything—at dawn and dusk, everyone "stood to" and prepared for attack, that being the most likely time, according to doctrine. Dak had argued that one div, or 3 A.M. was most effective, since biorhythms were at their lowest. "Dak, you're arguing logic with tradition and bureaucracy. Trust me," she insisted. He shrugged and went along with her schedule.

They quickly dug a hole at the edge of the roadbed, buried the large bomb and ran the sensor wire across the road. Mud and dead weeds camouflaged the scar on the ground and they retreated as Io began to show. Now they had to get far enough away not to be detected when the device detonated.

The rest of the trip was anticlimactic. They hit the next road over, ten kilometers away, that night, spread out to wait for the truck that was their pickup and hoisted themselves into the bed. They were back at the farm, Kendra soaking her calves in saltwater to take the swelling down as the blast hit. They heard about it secondhand and from intel reports two days later. One truck had been destroyed, plus its cargo of a generator, and two casualties. The psychological effect would be greater. "Wish we could have watched that," Kyle commented. Kendra nodded, not really sharing the feeling.

"What should we come up with next?" she asked as she rubbed her burning, itching legs.

Adding to the UN's problems was a serious logistical error. During the first month of operations, twelve Guardian vertols had been shot down or blown up by "terrorists." Replacements were requested and the files were munched by the usual bureaucracy. Nine new ones were sent. In the meantime, three more had been destroyed. General Huff tried to order excess numbers to allow for projected losses and ran into a twofold brick wall of a bureaucracy that couldn't provide more than the current table of operations allowed, and soundly critiqued him for having a negative attitude toward operational capabilities. It was simply not politic to admit that any losses would occur. He gritted his teeth and requested fifteen, waited through four more losses for them to arrive . . . and was sent eleven. This was not the way to run a war, he decided, with bean counters tabulating the cost of ammunition versus body count and land area.

He demanded, and got, a visit from an oversight committee to discuss methods. This concept of nonlethal warfare was popular with the gutless types who were terrified of every vote and every tax mark in case it was held against their bureau at review time, but it was not how wars were won. His men and women were paying the price because, naturally and as always, the enemy saw no advantage to playing the same game. To them, the psychological advantage came from splashing as much UN blood as possible on as many news vids and Peacekeepers as possible. They'd even taken to mailing anatomical parts to comrades after battles. The only result of this would be a long, bloody war, and he sought a quick end from pragmatic and ethical considerations.

The committee that visited was the typical collection of stodgy types who saw admin as more important than people. He ensured they were driven through some of the messiest areas of conflict in Jefferson, where body parts and fresh blood made a queasy impression on them. A quick pass through the hospital with ad lib screams of pain added to the effect. Then he took them to a cold, dark hangar for his pieces de resistance.

Even before they arrived, they'd agreed to some of his demands, but they drew the line at initiation of lethal force. Under no circumstances would that be tolerated. He made a pro forma objection before springing his trap.

"You have the other concessions, General. You may operate as you would in any other disputed territory and use nonlethal bioweapons. But we can't condone deadly force initiatives based on hearsay reports of weapons that are more than likely nonexistent, nor can you shut down civilian power," the spokeswoman insisted.

"Let me display for you some of the 'hearsay' and 'nonexistent' weapons the locals have," Huff said, sarcasm dripping. He nodded and the escorting guards opened the hangar door.

He led the entourage into the dark cavern and stopped at a shape emerging from the shadows. "This is a twenty-year-old, but still combat effective Tee Dee Twenty-Three tank destroyer we confiscated from its civilian owner. Over here," he said as he walked, hammering his points home, "is a Vee Six Bison, civilian model, retrofitted with six autocontrolled rotary cannon for gunship operations. Here," he waved at a pile of rifles, "are seventeen thousand and more military rifles we confiscated from a town of less than one hundred and fifty thousand residents. This is a pile of grenades made from pipe fittings, publicly available commercial explosives and common hardware and fusing. They also had these," he indicated a stack of rocket launchers, "these," a heap of machineguns, "and these."

He bent and retrieved one of the weapons in question. It was the same type of improv rocket launcher that Kendra had. He explained the device's operation and said, "Accuracy: terrible. Cost: about a day's local wages in materials. Effectiveness: you can blame this little terror for sixteen downed aircraft and forty-one vehicles. Their expense was about nine thousand marks in materials and eleven shooters. Our cost was one point six billion in aircraft and vehicles, eight highly trained pilots and fifty-six other personnel, plus morale loss and reduced strategic advantage."

The delegation was appropriately silent. Had he stripped naked and run screaming around the room he could not have disturbed them more. "I want lethal force," he said. "I cannot fight a war against these animals unless I can use the same weapons they do, which are all deadly."

It was necessary to defeat the military and the rebels quickly, he repeated, so as to minimize resentment among the civilians. Ironically, he'd learned this lesson on Mtali, observing a Freehold commander, one Naumann, doing exactly that to the factions there. There was nothing pretty about war, except its conclusion.

There were murmurs exchanged, but the glances at the captured weaponry assured him he had won at least part of this battle. Now to fight the real one against the rebels in the bush.

First, however, was the city. Rather than submit peacefully, the residents were fighting like cornered rats. The local gangs had plenty of weapons and were well trained. Despite any hype in the media, Earth gangs did not "outgun the police," nor did they have any real experience with their stolen weapons. The Freehold city gangs did. They would appear out of nowhere, through alleys and tunnels they knew well, swarm onto the surface level and hit a target, then retreat. In the sublevels, the UN had to maintain squad-sized patrols. Smaller groups had been tried and simply disappeared. It was one more stiff thorn in the side of the occupation. None of the usual methods would work against such tactics. Rationing, IDs or any other restrictions would only keep insurgents out, not control those inside who had them. A steady stream of criminal investigators tried without success to identify terrorists. Regular patrols helped minimize the activity, but at least once a week, a UN body would be found, usually violated in creative ways.

The patrols ran into less obvious problems. One such patrol was creeping through the depths of Commerce Court, night vision lenses in place, as all the tubes had been smashed. The shadows made it awkward to discern anything. Sweat poured off them in the dark confines, as they gingerly crept through the cluttered passage. It had been a busy, high-end commercial operation once. Now it was a rubble-strewn labyrinth. They were probing for enemy activity with the only bait that would work: themselves.

Eventually, they returned to the less shattered sections and their mood lightened along with the increase in illumination. It was no less dangerous, but the light made it seem far friendlier. They tilted their lenses back and spread out slightly.

There was movement, and they focused on it, weapons ready. The two in rear faced outward, ready for any envelopment.

"Hey," a soft female voice said. Two of them moved in closer.

The woman, girl really, was alone. She was thin and a bit disheveled but healthy. The lead soldier said, "ID."

She produced it carefully, and it matched her computer scan. "Says here you're a student in biology."

"I was," she admitted. "Maybe again when the war's over."

"What are you doing down here?" the field officer asked.

"Sleeping. Working," she said.

"What kind of work?"

In reply, she hiked up her short skirt. "What kind do you think? It's all I've got right now."

"Hmmm."

"So . . . you want some?"

There were comments and chuckles all around. "What about it, FO?" one of them asked. "Seems harmless enough. A little recreation."

Signaling for silence, the officer had the troops fan out and search the wreckage nearby, then the back passage to the shops. "All clear," she was told.

Grinning, she said, "Okay, guys, if you need to get off." There were whoops.

The girl smiled slightly. "Do you all for two hundred."

"Two hundred?" the ranking sergeant objected. "Tenner apiece. That's seventy." There were two women plus the officer in the unit of ten. That left seven men.

"Not me," one NCO objected. He'd been kidded before for his puritanical stance, but he'd made it clear it was a religious concern and the comments had stopped at once.

"Nor me," said the youngest and newest. He was still shy, but give him a few weeks.

"One and a half," she said, shaking her head.

"Seventy," the sergeant insisted. "For five, that's a deal."

Shrugging, she said, "Okay. Who wants it?" After a few jokes, one volunteered. The others argued over position and precedence.

The third troop said, "How about a switch? Something fresh." Obliging, the girl licked her lips.

Ten minutes of catcalls and rude jokes later, the squad prepared to leave. "What about you ladies?" she asked.

"I don't do women," one of them said.

"Nah," her buddy replied. "She'll do you."

"Be a thrill for me!" another said. "Just wish I had a camera so I could send a pic to your mom!"

There was shoving and teasing and one of the women agreed to at least pose. She yelped when touched and said, "Ooh! Not bad! Maybe I can live without men!"

"Come on, FO, you too!" someone said. She shook her head. Not in her position. It would be too familiar with the troops. Shrugging, the girl collected another twenty for the show, thanked them and waved as they wandered back to the surface, grinning and howling.

As soon as they were out of sight, she scrambled back into the darkness and entered a utility room. "Antidote!" she snapped as she opened the door. "And mouthwash. Goddess, those apes need to shower more often. And lose the body hair. Yuch."

Her assistant, a professor of biochemistry, slapped a tube against her arm and let the counter-virus seep into her skin. She had been contaminated with a short-lived, but fast-acting nano and was cutting her safety margin on infection close.

Above on the surface, the squad, field officer and observer made their way back to billets, secure behind a double perimeter. They were safe again, or so they thought. None of the six noticed any symptoms and were soon asleep, exhausted from the day's efforts.

Three days later, fourteen people were dead. The order to avoid local prostitutes was mostly unenforceable and did further damage to morale.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 33

"Our troops advanced today without losing a foot of ground."

—Alleged communique during
the Spanish Civil War

Kendra got a brief personal note in one of her daily loads. It read, "Logistics to beat logistics. Brilliant. N." She assumed that was Naumann. So he at least was alive. That was hopeful. She missed her unit and wished for some way to rejoin them, but slogging on foot across several hundred kilometers of rough, hostile terrain did not appeal. She still had no word of Rob or Marta. Had they cleared the base? Or been vaporized?

She sighed, rubbed her eyes and ran more calculations. Where to hit next? It wouldn't do to create a pattern, so she decided to hit some more traditional targets. That posed risk, but so did everything, and this was a war after all.

The intelligence download and local observations showed another force moving to build a Forward Operating Location within reach of the north villages. The goal was clearly to cut off Delph' and Jefferson from any support and simply take them the old-fashioned way—by siege. She wondered why they simply didn't blockade traffic, then realized the answer: they couldn't. There was no air control, so there was no way to stop flights. Stopping every flight would stop the flow of food the UN itself was stealing. Well, buying with scrap paper that was worthless. Nor were there sufficient personnel to stop every flight. The UN couldn't just shoot them down.

It was really awkward trying to fight a war as a "liberator," when one depended on good press and the goodwill of the populace being liberated. The rebels had no such hindrance. Any good press was a win, bad press wasn't really a loss and they were free to maraud as they saw fit. Her mind buzzed with schemes and calculations. It was an exhilarating experience and she slept very little as she figured her strategy.

Near Jefferson Starport, which had been converted to a UN military launch facility, a reservist of the FMF lay in wait. He was in deep, cold mud, eaten by insects until welts covered his face and hands and very, very bored. None of this bothered him and little of it impinged on his higher thoughts. It was simply the environment he was in. All that mattered were the incoming targets. A flight of four fixed wings had lifted off more than a div earlier. They should be returning soon . . . and there they were.

The best time to hit enemy aircraft was while they returned from a mission, low on fuel and munitions, potentially damaged and with tired, cranky pilots likely to make fatal errors. Since they had no reason to expect trouble, the aircraft in question were following their normal approach vector.

Make that lesson number one, the soldier thought to himself. Never be predictable.

The craft were staggered out, clearly visible in his hooded binoculars, and the lead one was on approach to the abbreviated strip. Fixed wings needed more room than vertols to operate, but could carry heavier loads. It was a fair tradeoff, but in this case posed a risk as yet unconsidered by the invaders.

The soldier raised his weapon—a professional infantry missile launcher—sighted carefully and fired, reloaded and fired again in seconds. Without waiting to see if the missiles found their mark, he rose to a crouch and began wading closer to the flightline at an oblique angle.

The first missile locked on its target, the lead craft, which detected it, jinked and dropped. This placed it closer to the second missile, which had a far cooler exhaust and better ECM. It was the true warrior here, not its decoy cousin that had expended itself to draw attention away. The Sentinel's systems detected it, too, but were hampered by internal preprograms. It wouldn't evade closer to the launch point, couldn't drop lower and couldn't alter speed drastically without aborting the landing it was attempting. The cybernetic thoughts froze for a moment of machine time as it considered, then lit a warning in the pilot's environment.

The pilot saw the flicker at the edge of his vision, moved to take human control, but was slower than the artificial synapses of the machine and too late. The second missile passed overhead at high speed and detonated. Its self-forged warhead slammed down through the lighter armor of the top surface, shredding an engine. There were two engines and the craft would ordinarily have corrected immediately with more thrust to the other one, but it was on manual. The machine moved to retake control, the pilot hesitated in shock and the already stressed craft dropped slightly lower. It impacted the runoff, not hard, but hard enough to shatter the frame and injure the pilot. Warnings squawked and the other pilots aborted their approaches.

The terrain was not conducive to a ground search. ACVs would have trouble with the boulders and deep spots, wheeled vehicles would be mired and infantry was just not a concept the UN was currently embracing. A sensor sweep of the launch area found nothing and the decision was made that the rebel had departed. The craft resumed their approach.

The third missile was launched virtually at touchdown and the target in question couldn't dodge as it tried to land. The missile caught the target near the cockpit and the pilot's ejection seat kicked in automatically. He would survive, but the wreckage of his Sentinel, combined with that already clogging the runoff, made the surface a hazard.

At this point, bureaucracy became the enemy. The runway was technically unserviceable, but the Sentinels did not need its entire length by a wide margin. It would be safe to land beyond the damage, once the shooter was contained, but to do so would officially be a violation of safety procedures. If a craft was damaged due to wreckage, it would be blamed on whoever authorized a landing on the "unserviceable" surface. The officer in charge of flight ops called up the chain of command for a decision, the security officer called the external security unit for them to deal with the shooter, and the pilots waited, fuel diminishing rapidly.

The Freeholder was ready to escape, be captured or killed at this point. He'd had his two shots and was departing the area rapidly. He knew there was a margin of safety in his schedule, but also knew that luck was not a factor one could depend on. He slogged through the mire, getting closer to the river where a small punt waited, and hoped for the best.

It was true that troops in powered armor were the best means of dealing with the shooter. It was true also that not using a resource would cause fingers to be pointed after the fact. It was therefore decided, with all bureaucratic logic, to send a squad out to clear the area. This took about forty-five minutes, from call to suitup to actual deployment across the flightline with proper safety precautions and checklists. The soldier was gone by then, but his legacy lingered slightly longer.

The two remaining Sentinels were low on fuel. A ranking officer had to decide whether to try to divert to another facility, risk landing amid wreckage and response vehicles or attempt to refuel in air and wait. The wing commander made the logical decision to simply make a downwind landing from the runway's other end, with precautions for the wreckage, and gave the order to do so. It was too late.

Both craft ran out of fuel as they orbited around to make the landing and the pilots decided not to ride their crippled aerial steeds into the swamp. They ejected and were soon rescued by the squad of infantry returning from their no-joy search for the missileer. Their craft were destroyed, enmired and unsalvageable.

Several days later, the soldier crept back through the oily slime around the craft and removed their IFFs and a handful of useful circuitry for intelligence analysis. He shook his head in disbelief. If a Freehold craft was deemed unrecoverable, it was slagged to prevent precisely this type of intel gathering.

Kendra's local insurgents roved around in small groups, leaving enough bodies to tend the farms. It took a few weeks for all of the adults to get a taste of combat and Kendra aged ten years inside. She was terrified of the possibility of an informer.

Kyle assured her that was impossible. "Not these people, not here. We're even more independent than the city dwellers. We hate even the suggestion of government meddling. And don't make the mistake of thinking of us as ignorant farmers. We've studied everything from the history of agriculture to business to chemistry. These people are solid," he said.

She believed him, but also knew enough mathematics to be certain there was at least one rat in the area. She hoped she was wrong.

She personally led most of the patrols until Dak convinced her that he, Sandra and Kyle had enough experience in the brush to avoid detection. The strain was wearing on her and was even worse when she wasn't leading the operation in question. Nothing she did helped her to relax and she wondered how long it would be before the stress caused her to crack.

The operations were getting harder, also. Every trick they used was, of course, quickly noted and defended against by the UN troops. Whether or not the bureaucracy allowed it, the people in question were not entirely stupid, those who survived a few missions were quite competent and the skills they'd used to bypass "the book" in peacetime were put to use in this new arena. Their motivation was the best available: survival.

Kendra led a harassment mission against the nearest firebase the UN was constructing. The end plan was to have a vertol contingent and a couple of artillery pieces placed in each of several overlapping circles to cover a large radius around every town. The insurgents were desperately working to keep the available support to a minimum for their own survival.

The firebase project was actually north of the farms and was in a broad prairie of tangled weeds and brush. There were no good enfilades or overlooks to use and no thick woods to hide from observation. Modern sensors would handily pick them up in the brush and it was doubtful they'd get close enough to do any real damage. A mortar would be of great use, but they had none. Her grenades lacked the range and were too valuable to waste on difficult targets. Their best option was to set traps along the ground route. Since the ground convoys were large and well protected, the most practical approach was to disable a vehicle and take a few potshots. The chance of inflicting serious casualties was slim, but it would slow things down and that by itself might prove useful.

Dak dug out some of his precious explosives, needed also for clearing boulders and trees on the farm, and Kendra called up diagrams of fuses and triggers. Kyle studied them briefly and assured her he could manufacture them. Once all components were ready came the task of setting the trap. It required stealth and deception, as well as painful labor.

Vikki drove them as close as was deemed safe and the three of them rolled out the back of the truck as it slowed for a bend. The UN was unlikely to observe a vehicle closely, but stopping in the middle of nowhere would attract attention if anyone was watching the area via satellite, aircraft or observation post. They bounced to the ground, Kendra bruising her pelvis painfully in the process, and shimmied into tall brush. Once safely in, they threw up camouflaged and heat-disrupting veils to sleep under and settled in to slap at bugs for the day.

That night, they spread out and began walking. The few fused roads out here were laid in approximate grid squares and they had a hike through rough terrain of five thousand meters. Using night vision of varying quality to find their way and keep their distance, they began slogging. They were unarmed, in case of discovery. Assuming they either finished or could ditch their deadly packages before capture, they would be in a much better position to deny involvement. Kendra doubted it would work, but to not do so would definitely cause problems in an emergency.

They meandered in the general direction of the target, doing their best to mimic animal movements. They stopped and started, cast about and moved in convoluted paths. Progress was tedious, frustrating, caused numerous aches, and they were quickly cold and wet as fog and dew rolled in. Prickly weeds, tangling bush and burrs and roots impeded progress. Near midnight, a springing sound of undergrowth caused Kendra to wheel about, drawing the machete she carried as her only weapon. She saw movement and felt a vicious tug at her calves and several sharp stings.

"Firethorns!" she whispered hoarsely to herself, then lay still, wincing in pain as the patch finished coiling. It dragged at her wounds, scratching across the fabric of her pants as she closed her eyes against tears of agony. Once she was sure it was done, she carefully drew out a folding tool and commenced cutting herself free.

She cursed as she did so, both in pain and because she could smell the dank, rotten stink of the decay beneath the patch where other, less fortunate creatures were slowly turning into fertilizer. Even in the chill night, insects buzzed about, feasting on the refuse. It was a stupid greenhorn mistake and she should have known better. The other two had skirted this area, but she'd cut across to avoid following an existing route and to save time.

Free at last, she sat back gingerly and began dumping anesthetic and disinfectant into the wounds. Her legs looked as if a large cat had shredded them, with scratches and seeping punctures all over. At least tetanus hadn't gotten much of a foothold here, although she was immunized. She wasn't sure when she was due for a booster. Maybe Vikki had some.

She rose painfully to her feet, feeling the wounds begin to inflame already. She pushed sorely on and hoped the swelling wouldn't impede her too much.

They did reach their objective before dawn and waited nervously for the first gray tinges across the broad coastal plain. She'd spent a long time convincing the others that UN doctrine would hold through almost anything—at dawn and dusk, everyone "stood to" and prepared for attack, that being the most likely time, according to doctrine. Dak had argued that one div, or 3 A.M. was most effective, since biorhythms were at their lowest. "Dak, you're arguing logic with tradition and bureaucracy. Trust me," she insisted. He shrugged and went along with her schedule.

They quickly dug a hole at the edge of the roadbed, buried the large bomb and ran the sensor wire across the road. Mud and dead weeds camouflaged the scar on the ground and they retreated as Io began to show. Now they had to get far enough away not to be detected when the device detonated.

The rest of the trip was anticlimactic. They hit the next road over, ten kilometers away, that night, spread out to wait for the truck that was their pickup and hoisted themselves into the bed. They were back at the farm, Kendra soaking her calves in saltwater to take the swelling down as the blast hit. They heard about it secondhand and from intel reports two days later. One truck had been destroyed, plus its cargo of a generator, and two casualties. The psychological effect would be greater. "Wish we could have watched that," Kyle commented. Kendra nodded, not really sharing the feeling.

"What should we come up with next?" she asked as she rubbed her burning, itching legs.

Adding to the UN's problems was a serious logistical error. During the first month of operations, twelve Guardian vertols had been shot down or blown up by "terrorists." Replacements were requested and the files were munched by the usual bureaucracy. Nine new ones were sent. In the meantime, three more had been destroyed. General Huff tried to order excess numbers to allow for projected losses and ran into a twofold brick wall of a bureaucracy that couldn't provide more than the current table of operations allowed, and soundly critiqued him for having a negative attitude toward operational capabilities. It was simply not politic to admit that any losses would occur. He gritted his teeth and requested fifteen, waited through four more losses for them to arrive . . . and was sent eleven. This was not the way to run a war, he decided, with bean counters tabulating the cost of ammunition versus body count and land area.

He demanded, and got, a visit from an oversight committee to discuss methods. This concept of nonlethal warfare was popular with the gutless types who were terrified of every vote and every tax mark in case it was held against their bureau at review time, but it was not how wars were won. His men and women were paying the price because, naturally and as always, the enemy saw no advantage to playing the same game. To them, the psychological advantage came from splashing as much UN blood as possible on as many news vids and Peacekeepers as possible. They'd even taken to mailing anatomical parts to comrades after battles. The only result of this would be a long, bloody war, and he sought a quick end from pragmatic and ethical considerations.

The committee that visited was the typical collection of stodgy types who saw admin as more important than people. He ensured they were driven through some of the messiest areas of conflict in Jefferson, where body parts and fresh blood made a queasy impression on them. A quick pass through the hospital with ad lib screams of pain added to the effect. Then he took them to a cold, dark hangar for his pieces de resistance.

Even before they arrived, they'd agreed to some of his demands, but they drew the line at initiation of lethal force. Under no circumstances would that be tolerated. He made a pro forma objection before springing his trap.

"You have the other concessions, General. You may operate as you would in any other disputed territory and use nonlethal bioweapons. But we can't condone deadly force initiatives based on hearsay reports of weapons that are more than likely nonexistent, nor can you shut down civilian power," the spokeswoman insisted.

"Let me display for you some of the 'hearsay' and 'nonexistent' weapons the locals have," Huff said, sarcasm dripping. He nodded and the escorting guards opened the hangar door.

He led the entourage into the dark cavern and stopped at a shape emerging from the shadows. "This is a twenty-year-old, but still combat effective Tee Dee Twenty-Three tank destroyer we confiscated from its civilian owner. Over here," he said as he walked, hammering his points home, "is a Vee Six Bison, civilian model, retrofitted with six autocontrolled rotary cannon for gunship operations. Here," he waved at a pile of rifles, "are seventeen thousand and more military rifles we confiscated from a town of less than one hundred and fifty thousand residents. This is a pile of grenades made from pipe fittings, publicly available commercial explosives and common hardware and fusing. They also had these," he indicated a stack of rocket launchers, "these," a heap of machineguns, "and these."

He bent and retrieved one of the weapons in question. It was the same type of improv rocket launcher that Kendra had. He explained the device's operation and said, "Accuracy: terrible. Cost: about a day's local wages in materials. Effectiveness: you can blame this little terror for sixteen downed aircraft and forty-one vehicles. Their expense was about nine thousand marks in materials and eleven shooters. Our cost was one point six billion in aircraft and vehicles, eight highly trained pilots and fifty-six other personnel, plus morale loss and reduced strategic advantage."

The delegation was appropriately silent. Had he stripped naked and run screaming around the room he could not have disturbed them more. "I want lethal force," he said. "I cannot fight a war against these animals unless I can use the same weapons they do, which are all deadly."

It was necessary to defeat the military and the rebels quickly, he repeated, so as to minimize resentment among the civilians. Ironically, he'd learned this lesson on Mtali, observing a Freehold commander, one Naumann, doing exactly that to the factions there. There was nothing pretty about war, except its conclusion.

There were murmurs exchanged, but the glances at the captured weaponry assured him he had won at least part of this battle. Now to fight the real one against the rebels in the bush.

First, however, was the city. Rather than submit peacefully, the residents were fighting like cornered rats. The local gangs had plenty of weapons and were well trained. Despite any hype in the media, Earth gangs did not "outgun the police," nor did they have any real experience with their stolen weapons. The Freehold city gangs did. They would appear out of nowhere, through alleys and tunnels they knew well, swarm onto the surface level and hit a target, then retreat. In the sublevels, the UN had to maintain squad-sized patrols. Smaller groups had been tried and simply disappeared. It was one more stiff thorn in the side of the occupation. None of the usual methods would work against such tactics. Rationing, IDs or any other restrictions would only keep insurgents out, not control those inside who had them. A steady stream of criminal investigators tried without success to identify terrorists. Regular patrols helped minimize the activity, but at least once a week, a UN body would be found, usually violated in creative ways.

The patrols ran into less obvious problems. One such patrol was creeping through the depths of Commerce Court, night vision lenses in place, as all the tubes had been smashed. The shadows made it awkward to discern anything. Sweat poured off them in the dark confines, as they gingerly crept through the cluttered passage. It had been a busy, high-end commercial operation once. Now it was a rubble-strewn labyrinth. They were probing for enemy activity with the only bait that would work: themselves.

Eventually, they returned to the less shattered sections and their mood lightened along with the increase in illumination. It was no less dangerous, but the light made it seem far friendlier. They tilted their lenses back and spread out slightly.

There was movement, and they focused on it, weapons ready. The two in rear faced outward, ready for any envelopment.

"Hey," a soft female voice said. Two of them moved in closer.

The woman, girl really, was alone. She was thin and a bit disheveled but healthy. The lead soldier said, "ID."

She produced it carefully, and it matched her computer scan. "Says here you're a student in biology."

"I was," she admitted. "Maybe again when the war's over."

"What are you doing down here?" the field officer asked.

"Sleeping. Working," she said.

"What kind of work?"

In reply, she hiked up her short skirt. "What kind do you think? It's all I've got right now."

"Hmmm."

"So . . . you want some?"

There were comments and chuckles all around. "What about it, FO?" one of them asked. "Seems harmless enough. A little recreation."

Signaling for silence, the officer had the troops fan out and search the wreckage nearby, then the back passage to the shops. "All clear," she was told.

Grinning, she said, "Okay, guys, if you need to get off." There were whoops.

The girl smiled slightly. "Do you all for two hundred."

"Two hundred?" the ranking sergeant objected. "Tenner apiece. That's seventy." There were two women plus the officer in the unit of ten. That left seven men.

"Not me," one NCO objected. He'd been kidded before for his puritanical stance, but he'd made it clear it was a religious concern and the comments had stopped at once.

"Nor me," said the youngest and newest. He was still shy, but give him a few weeks.

"One and a half," she said, shaking her head.

"Seventy," the sergeant insisted. "For five, that's a deal."

Shrugging, she said, "Okay. Who wants it?" After a few jokes, one volunteered. The others argued over position and precedence.

The third troop said, "How about a switch? Something fresh." Obliging, the girl licked her lips.

Ten minutes of catcalls and rude jokes later, the squad prepared to leave. "What about you ladies?" she asked.

"I don't do women," one of them said.

"Nah," her buddy replied. "She'll do you."

"Be a thrill for me!" another said. "Just wish I had a camera so I could send a pic to your mom!"

There was shoving and teasing and one of the women agreed to at least pose. She yelped when touched and said, "Ooh! Not bad! Maybe I can live without men!"

"Come on, FO, you too!" someone said. She shook her head. Not in her position. It would be too familiar with the troops. Shrugging, the girl collected another twenty for the show, thanked them and waved as they wandered back to the surface, grinning and howling.

As soon as they were out of sight, she scrambled back into the darkness and entered a utility room. "Antidote!" she snapped as she opened the door. "And mouthwash. Goddess, those apes need to shower more often. And lose the body hair. Yuch."

Her assistant, a professor of biochemistry, slapped a tube against her arm and let the counter-virus seep into her skin. She had been contaminated with a short-lived, but fast-acting nano and was cutting her safety margin on infection close.

Above on the surface, the squad, field officer and observer made their way back to billets, secure behind a double perimeter. They were safe again, or so they thought. None of the six noticed any symptoms and were soon asleep, exhausted from the day's efforts.

Three days later, fourteen people were dead. The order to avoid local prostitutes was mostly unenforceable and did further damage to morale.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed