First to Fight (22 page)

The two-acre city square on which the Marines formed up was paved with cracked and pitted flagstones laid on an unevenly packed foundation. A thin line of scraggly trees bordered the square, but wide gaps exposed the brooding entrances to the official buildings that surrounded it. The few benches arrayed in a smaller rectangle within the square of trees were unoccupied.

Still, Dean looked around in awe of the undistinguished burg. In the first twenty-three years of his life, he’d never gone farther from New Rochester than New Columbia District. This was the third foreign planet he’d set foot on in less than a year.

McNeal looked around and spat on the ground. New Obbia looked entirely too much like what he’d wanted to escape when he enlisted in the Marines.

“Living here must be worse than going through Boot Camp,” Claypoole said softly. “And I thought Arsenault was the asshole of Human Space.”

Chan shook his head. “Reminds me of Cross and Thorn. Whoever’s in charge here doesn’t care about the physical well-being of the people.”

“That’s enough chatter in the ranks,” Sergeant Hyakowa said. They all stopped talking.

At that moment, Captain Conorado and First Sergeant Myer, accompanied by three well-dressed civilians and a Confederation Navy Admiral, came out of the four-story building the formation faced.

“Comp-ANY, a-ten-HUT!” Gunny Thatcher bellowed. The click of heels coming together and thuds of blaster butts snapping to the ground echoed hollowly through the square. Thatcher timed his about-face to coincide with the arrival of Conorado and the others. His hand snapped up in a salute. “Company L and attachments, all present or accounted for, sir.”

The company commander smartly returned his salute. “Thank you, Company Gunnery Sergeant. You may take your place.”

Thatcher took a sharp step backward, then turned equally sharply to his right and marched to his parade position parallel to the front row of the formation.

Conorado took a step forward to stand in the same spot Thatcher had and stood at attention. “Company L and attachments,” he said in a voice loud enough to clearly be heard throughout the square, “first platoon and the assault section that came with it in the first wave have already been briefed on the current situation and are in security positions around this part of the city. Here to address you are Fleet Admiral P’Marc Willis, the highest-ranking representative of the Confederation on Elneal; Confederation Consul Jardinier Dozois; and Planetary President, the Honorable Mr. Kismayu Merka.” He turned to his right. “Admiral.”

The navy officer stepped forward. “Thank you, Captain,” he said. He faced the company and began, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see a reinforced company of Marines here. I’m sure the Marines of the provisional FIST I assembled from the ship’s complements of my fleet are as glad to have you here as I am. Now they can begin to return to their regular duties.” He paused briefly and pretended he didn’t notice the soft wave of snickering that swept through Company L at his mention of the ship’s Marines. “As I’m sure you are well aware, the situation on Elneal has gone beyond mere desperation. People are dying of starvation all over the world. There have been repeated massacres by hungry people trying to seize food from other hungry people. Now, after months of difficult negotiation, the fighters have agreed to put down their arms and put their conflicts behind them so that people can be fed.”

Three things then happened in such rapid succession they seemed to happen almost simultaneously. First came the sound of explosions, muffled by distance. Almost instantly, a navy petty officer raced out of the government building. A shrill whistle preceded a puff of gray smoke that erupted in a comer of the square before the petty officer reached the Admiral, and chunks of rock and metal flew about and clattered to the flagstones.

As experienced as many of the Marines were, it was a second or two before any of them understood that this strange noise was a mortar explosion.

“Into the Dragons,” Conorado shouted as soon as he realized what was happening. “Those are chemical explosives!”

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

Conorado unceremoniously grabbed both Admiral Willis and President Merka by their upper arms. He shoved one at First Sergeant Myer and the other at Gunny Thatcher. “Get them inside,” he snapped. He looked around for Consul Dozois and saw that the diplomat was already sprinting for the safety of the government building. Only then did Conorado race back into the government building himself, to the command center he’d hastily set up in a room of Admiral Willis’s suite, near the entrance of the building. Still in the square, Lieutenant Humphrey oversaw the loading of the Dragons before following. From his vehicle, Staff Sergeant Drabek, of the transportation platoon, ordered the ten armored vehicles into positions affording them some protection from the incoming mortar rounds while covering all the approaches to the square. Three mortar rounds exploded in the square. The Marines in the Dragons waited tensely for more, which didn’t come, and for their company commander to issue further orders.

Inside the command center three flat-screens hung on the walls. Only one, the largest, was lit. It showed a picture of the city center projected from the string-of-pearls satellites. Eight points were marked in green in a tight circle around the blue point that indicated the command center. Two of the green points, one to the southeast and one to the west, had red splotches near them.

“Bring in the view,” Conorado ordered. The scale of the map on the screen immediately changed so that the circle of green reached almost to the edges. He looked at the view and shook his head. Buildings were in the way. From its angle of view, the satellite couldn’t pick up enough detail of what was happening on the streets.

The Marine captain didn’t even glance at the navy admiral before beginning his intelligence, assessment, planning, and action sequence. Admiral Willis, for his part, may have been the senior man present, but he knew when to defer to the expertise of others and stood quietly out of the way, regathering his dignity after being hustled out of the square.

“What are you getting from your UAVs, Cowboy?”

“Cowboy” Bill Flett, the company’s unmanned aerial vehicle chief, sat with his head encased in a virtual reality helmet and his hands and feet on the controls of his remote-controlled reconnaissance drone. On the other side of the room Corporal “Speed” MacLeash, the company’s other UAV man, was operating another recon drone.

“OP Delta is under attack by unidentified people inside two facing buildings,” Flett answered. Observation Point D, OP Delta, was represented on the map by the green spot to the southeast. The eight OPs, located at a distance of three blocks from the square, were each manned by three Marines from first platoon. The assault section that came down with them in the first wave was on building tops immediately around the square.

“Any idea how many attackers, or how they’re armed?”

“They’re using projectile weapons, Skipper, I can see that much. There might be a reinforced squad, it’s hard to tell. I’m looking for the mortar.”

“Find it.” Conorado turned his attention to the other UAV man. “What do you have, MacLeash?”

“OP Golf is under assault. I see about two squads maneuvering through the street toward them.” He paused, wondering if he should continue, then added, “You’re not going to believe this, sir, but they’re wearing skirts.”

“What? Golf is being attacked by women?”

“Nossir, not unless the women here have hairy faces. It’s men with beards, but they’re wearing skirts and blouses.”

“Skirts. Right.” Conorado concluded they were probably Bos Kashi. The Siad wore robes MacLeash would have described as “dresses.” A corner of his mouth twitched as he realized the briefings he and Myer gave the Marines on board the
Gordon
hadn’t included enough ethnic information on the inhabitants of Elneal. MacLeash had one small unit under observation. Conorado wondered if one of the other warrior tribes was also in the city. Was one of those groups attacking Delta, or were they ready to attack elsewhere in the city? And who was on the mortar?

“Do you see anybody on rooftops?”

Both reconnaissance men answered in the negative.

“Do you see anybody else?”

“Not in the patterns we’ve been flying,” Flett answered. Inside his helmet, he was able to switch points of view between the UAV he controlled and the one MacLeash was flying, which he did frequently enough to be on top of what his assistant was observing.

“Radio,” Conorado said.

“OP Delta reports no casualties,” replied the company ‘s senior communications man, Corporal Escarpo. “They think they took out two of the men with projectile weapons, and fire has slackened. OP Golf reports they’ve got their attackers pinned down and unable to return fire. No other OPs report any hostile activity.”

Conorado nodded to himself. These attacks on the two observation points could be isolated actions undertaken by a few Bos Kashi who wanted to demonstrate their lack of fear of the Marines before laying down their arms. It didn’t have to mean any real resistance was going on, but making a wrong assumption could be disastrous. He needed more information.

“Get me third platoon’s command unit,” he told Escarpo, and put his helmet on. “And send them a map.”

The communications man touched several buttons on his radio.

Almost immediately Conorado heard Lance Corporal “Moose” Dupont, third platoon’s communications man, in his earphones acknowledging the call.

“Three Four,” Conorado said—he almost said “Three Actual,” but remembered in time that Bass was no longer the platoon commander, “this is Six Actual. Do you see the map yet?”

There was a brief hesitation before Bass answered, “I’ve got it.”

Conorado imagined Ensign Baccacio handing over the commander’s locator, and knew he’d have to explain to him why he was giving his orders to the platoon sergeant instead of to the officer in charge. But that could wait. He also knew he should be giving these orders to Ensign Baccacio, but he wanted an experienced man in command of the situation. Too much, including the lives of his men, depended on the man in charge. He leaned over Escarpo’s shoulder and tapped a few keys on the pad. “Your position is marked in blue. OP Golf is green. The red-speckled area west of Golf is approximately two squads of Bos Kashi with projectile weapons. They are pinned down. Take your platoon and round them up. Recon Two will fly for you. I want at least one live prisoner. Any questions?”

“They have projectile weapons, and we don’t have body armor,” Bass replied.

“You’re in armored vehicles.”

“On our way, sir.”

Conorado flicked off his radio and glanced at MacLeash to make sure he got the message to fly reconnaissance for third platoon. “Recon, project,” he said. The two smaller wall screens blinked on, slowing the view from the two UAVs. Recon One, being flown by Flett, was well above the city, flying a quartering pattern in the direction the mortar rounds had come from. Recon Two gave a clear picture of the street where OP Golf was fighting. The two squads of Bos Kashi had good cover from their front, but most of the fighters were fully exposed to their rear.

“Do you see what I do, Charlie?” Conorado asked into his radio.

“That’s an affirmative, Skipper,” Bass replied. “We can walk right up on them. Just make sure Golf knows we’re on our way.”

“Sir,” Escarpo interrupted before Conorado could acknowledge Bass’s request. “Delta reports heavier fire from the buildings and requests suppressive fire.”

Conorado looked at Willis for the first time since entering the command post. “Sir, how hard do we have to try to avoid damaging the buildings?”

There was a cease-fire in effect, and someone had violated it. Because of the cease-fire, the Marines came in unequipped for all-out combat; they were peacekeepers who were attacked. More, Admiral Willis had seen the carnage the Bos Kashi and others had inflicted on innocent civilians. As far as he was concerned, they were vermin to be disposed of as quickly as possible. He didn’t have to think about it before saying, “The Negev Protocol is authorized, Captain.” He then looked toward an apparently blank stretch of wall and added in a strong, clear voice, “For the record, I am P’Marc Willis, Fleet Admiral of the Confederation Navy. I hereby authorize the Marines on Elneal to put into effect the Negev Protocol.” The microphone concealed in the wall dutifully recorded the Admiral’s statement.

Twenty years earlier, the Marines had a peacekeeping mission on Alhambra. A squad came under heavy fire from a large number of men in a village in the Negev district. The squad leader, seeing that his men were severely outnumbered and in extreme danger, called in an air strike, which leveled the village. Two hundred civilians were killed, along with every man in the unit that had fired on the Marines. The Marine brigadier in command of the mission immediately backed up the squad leader’s decision and announced that any further attacks on Marines would be met with overwhelming and devastating force. No one fired on a Marine for the remaining four standard months of the mission—and no villagers harbored armed men who wanted to resist the peacekeepers. Such a strong response became known as the “Negev Protocol.” There was no clear policy on when the protocol should be used. It was left up to the commander on the scene to determine if his forces were in danger of unprovoked attack and if massive retaliation was appropriate.

Admiral Willis thought it was appropriate in these circumstances. Captain Conorado unhesitatingly agreed—those were his men out there with their lives in danger.

Conorado activated the all-hands circuit in his helmet radio. “All hands, now hear this,” he said. “This is Captain Conorado, commander of Company L, 34th FIST.” He used his name and position to make it absolutely clear to everyone who was speaking. “Until further notice, the Negev Protocol is in effect. If anyone shoots at you, or threatens you, you are authorized to use all necessary lethal and destructive force to stop whatever threat you are faced with. That is all.” Then he turned on the circuit to the assault platoon headquarters unit and ordered, “Get a section to where it can support Delta. Knock down as many buildings as you have to to convince whoever’s shooting at those Marines that it’s a bad idea.”

From the instant Bass realized Conorado was leaving him in command of the platoon, he carefully avoided looking at Baccacio. He could imagine what was going through the young officer’s mind. When he got a moment, he’d think of a way of explaining to the ensign that this was a good training opportunity, but in the meantime he had a strike to plan and execute. Bass spent a few seconds examining the map on the locator. Both his position and OP Golfs were precisely marked—where the Bos Kashi were located was more generally indicated. As he moved forward to the crew chiefs station he took stock of who was in the Dragon. He had his own first squad and one assault gun team, along with half a squad from second platoon.

The crew chief was examining his own map of the area, which showed not only the same positions that were marked on Bass’s map, but all the vehicles of his platoon.

“How does this look to you?” Bass asked, tracing a route that would bring the two armored vehicles to less than a block behind the pinned-down Bos Kashi.

“If we do it this way,” the crew chief traced two lines on his map display, “we get them caught in a three-way cross fire, and neither of my vehicles blocks the other.’’

Bass thought about the suggestion for a second or two and saw it would take only half a minute longer for them to arrive at the two-way positions. He clapped the crew chief on the shoulder. “Let’s do it.” If they didn’t run into anyone else along the way, it would be fairly easy.

The crew chief gave his driver a hand signal and spoke into his radio. The two Dragons carrying third platoon and part of second roared out of the square at high speed.

Bass glanced at the crew chiefs map to get the designations of the two vehicles and flicked on his radio. “Foxtrot Five is going to November Twenty-seven,” he said, reading off the map coordinates of his vehicle’s destination, “and Foxtrot Six is going to Oscar Twenty-eight.” He pressed the button on the locator that sent the map image to the Heads Up Display in the squad leaders’ helmets. “When we get where we are going, third platoon will dismount and take positions on line facing the Bos Kashi. The members of second platoon who are with us will dismount and take defensive positions facing the rear, and will be the reserve. When we are in position, I will hail the Bos Kashi and demand surrender. We are here to capture them, not kill them. Nobody fire until I give the word, or unless fired upon. Questions?” There weren’t any. Bass didn’t turn off the HUD transmission; his squad leaders could cancel it individually when they had seen enough to know where they were going and what they’d do once they got there.

Baccacio had come up next to Bass as he was transmitting, and the platoon sergeant now looked at him.

“Just like an immediate reaction drill,” Bass said. “Except lives are on the line.”

Baccacio’s jaw was locked too tightly to speak. He nodded curtly.

It took less than two minutes for the two Dragons to get into position to dismount their passengers, but that was long enough for Conorado to come back on the radio with his all-hands message.

“Negev,” Baccacio said, a skull-like grin splitting his face. “You don’t hail them, Bass. We get in position and fry them.”

Bass gave Baccacio a steady look. “The Skipper wants a prisoner. We hail first.”