Orphan Brigade (13 page)

An acidic scent reached his nostrils once Mortas was standing opposite Follett, but with no aroma of alcohol. Of course there were odorless intoxicants available, and their use was nothing new in the war zone, but he was still baffled. Follett abruptly came to his feet and began kicking dirt all over the spot that Mortas now knew was emitting the smell.

“Seriously, sir, are you all right? Want to come inside for a few minutes?”

The kicking became almost furious, and the thin man leaned heavily on the table while his boots rearranged the soil. It had little effect on the aroma, but after a minute he finally stopped.

“Actually, I think I'll just go for a little walk. Get some air. Been spending too much time inside.”

“All right.” His tone caused Follett to stop. Mortas almost expected some kind of arch comment about the way lieutenants were supposed to address captains, but he was mistaken.

“You haven't been out there yet, have you? With the unit, I mean.” The words were far from arch. Pleading, almost.

“No, sir. Not with the unit.”

Follett stepped closer, the edge of the floodlight giving his taut skin a silvery glow.

“Food, Mortas. Food. They all talk about water, but every Hab's got water. You can always find water. Food's the killer.” His head tilted upward, his eyes on the stars. “Can't seem to convince them. The clock starts as soon as the troops are on the ground. You wouldn't believe how fast they consume what they're carrying, and then . . . if I don't get them more, if I don't
find
them more . . . they die.”

“Yes, sir. I know. I was marooned my first time out.”

Follett's eyes came back to him, blinking rapidly. The words appeared to have some kind of calming effect.

“That's right. You already know. You actually understand.” He turned and walked off, weaving slightly. “Make your men understand, Lieutenant. As much chow as they can carry, and eat it slow. Make them understand.”

Mortas watched the figure until the darkness swallowed it.

T
he sun was just beyond the horizon when Mortas felt its presence the next morning. The headquarters windows had shifted from black to gray with the end of night, and a stirring came with it. Motion. Activity. Direction.

He walked out onto the back steps and looked over the open field in front of the barracks. Most mornings at this time he would have been getting ready for physical training, which was why he'd never experienced this sensation before. The rising sun's rays reached up from the distant hills, and the growing light allowed him to see the battalion coming to life.

Individuals already dotted the grass close to the long buildings, some dressed in T-­shirts and black shorts while others wore fatigues. The barracks let out a steadily increasing stream of men as the time for morning formation approached, and Mortas was able to hear the voices as they came together. Old hands joking easily, new men standing uncertainly by themselves, early risers already stretching while others—­among them, probably, the carousers from the previous night—­tried to move as little as possible. Light skin, dark skin, olive skin, almond skin, scarred skin.

As more men arrived, the rectangular formations began to assemble, squads in rows forming the brick-­shaped platoons. Three companies side by side, facing the open field, with a smaller block representing the headquarters sections. Lone individuals, the company first sergeants, striding out in front to take charge. A definite straightening up now, a few of the platoon sergeants ordering their men to “square away!” in preparation for the first sergeants calling them to attention. Behind the blocks of men, several figures stood in a row or leaned on crutches, the returned wounded from the battalion's battles.

The shifting bodies finally locked into place like statues, personnel reports rendered and received, then the units released to their NCOs for training. Entire platoons headed toward the mess hall for early chow before moving out for a day at the range or some other kind of training. The wounded men limped or crutched away, looking to Mortas like the dejected playmates of his childhood who'd been too young for the game the older kids had chosen. The remaining troops extended their ranks to provide room for stretching and setting-­up exercises before starting PT.

Mortas smiled, recognizing Sergeant Berland at the head of First Platoon. Pleased that he was now able to identify most of his NCOs and many of his troops, but reminding himself that they were still badly understrength. The stretching period ended shortly, and the battalion formation fragmented completely as platoons and squads moved out onto different portions of the field.

The movement was accompanied by shouted commands and answering cries of varying enthusiasm, and in short order the entire field was in motion. Physical training among the Orphans took many different forms, and the NCOs were given great latitude in designing their workouts. Here one group alternated push-­ups and sit-­ups while over there another section jogged in a circle to warm up before going on a run. One squad practiced combat rolls while an entire platoon duckwalked across the ground.

Shouting filled the air as the sun rose, repetitions and cadences that Mortas felt in his chest. First Platoon, in fatigues and boots but no hats, finished its preparations and began a drill that was one of Berland's favorites. He'd paced off a distance of fifteen yards on the field, and the men formed three files facing the markers he'd emplaced. On command, the first three dropped to their stomachs and began worming their way across the grass.

This was an infantry movement technique known as the high crawl, different from the low crawl in that the soldier's head was raised off the deck. It was much faster than the low crawl, but also more dangerous under fire. The Orphans were fanatics about these uncomfortable modes of travel, insisting that the high and low crawls were the only protection against the vaunted marksmanship of the individual Sim soldier and that they had to be practiced often. At a designated interval the next three men dropped to the ground and turned themselves into jerky starfish, arms and legs twisting and pushing as they followed the troops in front of them.

Watching, Mortas remembered how the dirt on Roanum would work its way into his trousers and boots when he and the others had been forced to crawl in order to avoid detection.

When the first three soldiers reached the finish line they hopped up and jogged in place, ready to repeat the exercise once the entire platoon was behind them again. Berland liked to alternate the drill with different techniques for casualty evacuation, from the buddy-­carry to dragging the stricken man across the ground. Above the din of the other units exercising, Mortas was able to hear shouted words of both ridicule and encouragement from the First Platoon men waiting their turns.

Knowing the intense effort required to high crawl even a dozen yards, Mortas remembered a promise he'd made to himself just after meeting the platoon. Heavily identified as the son of Olech Mortas, he knew he'd be criticized for any failure to participate in unpleasant activities. Rich kid. Daddy's protected pet. Fucking officers.

He wasn't required to be out there after having been on duty all night, but all the same, Mortas called back into the building to tell the NCO from C Company that he was joining his platoon for PT. He jogged around the field's perimeter, dodging squads that were heading off to do a little roadwork, and was startled when the sweating face of Colonel Alden appeared in front of him.

“Going for a little extra credit there, Jan?” the battalion commander shouted happily, jogging past with Major Hatton and the other headquarters officers in tow. Mortas reflexively saluted, but the file was already gone before he realized that Alden had given him a thumbs-­up as he went by.

Just as he jogged up to the rear of First Platoon, Mortas heard a familiar voice shouting to the soldiers in one line. The speaker was a veteran private, enormously popular in the platoon, a tall individual named Ladaglia.

“Come on, guys! We do this right, we can win the war right here!” It was his signature phrase, and the first time Mortas had heard it, Ladaglia and some of the new men had been scrubbing the latrine.

Sergeant Dak, one of the squad leaders, noted Mortas's arrival. Everything about Dak was dark, from his hair to his skin to his humor, but Berland considered him the best NCO in the platoon after himself. Though only medium-­sized, Dak emitted a formidable aura. The NCO stepped to the front of the line, stopping the soldier who was next.

“Lieutenant's here. He's a little late, so let's give him a chance to catch up.” He swung an inviting arm toward the grass, and Mortas obligingly threw himself on his stomach and began to crawl.

O
nly a few hours later, Mortas was panting hard and trying not to get shot. The sun was high overhead, he was loaded down with full torso-­and-­shoulder armor, and his new helmet kept sliding down onto his goggles every time he hit the dirt. The platoon's three machine guns were chattering away on a low ridge several hundred yards to his left, firing real rounds at the fake enemy positions Mortas was assaulting with the rest of the platoon. All around him were the sounds of rifles and grenade launchers, and yet he could see none of it.

Mortas was surrounded by thick grass that was almost as tall as he was and seemingly without end. He couldn't stand at his full height to look around because, while the grass might keep him out of sight, it would do nothing to shield him from incoming Sim slugs. As a result he was either moving ahead in a crouch or pressed flat on his stomach. Though familiar with the piece of ground from earlier practice runs where they'd rehearsed with no ammunition, Mortas had lost contact with the assault squads almost as soon as they'd hit the grass.

The hill they were attempting to capture had been set up with fake enemy bunkers long ago, but the Orphans' absence during their last mission had allowed the vegetation to reassert itself. Berland was with the machine gun teams on a distant ridgeline, directing suppressive fire meant to keep their opponents' heads down while Mortas and the rest of the platoon physically assaulted the position. Their practice run-­throughs had finally been deemed sufficient for live fire, and so now real rounds and explosives were being discharged very close by.

Dak's squad had been on his left with Mecklinger's on his right—­as assault leader, Mortas's spot was in the dead center—­and they'd maneuvered to the base of the hill before signaling to Berland to start the show. As soon as the platoon's machine guns opened up, reactive systems on the hilltop target had responded. Training mechanisms inside the enemy's low bunkers were now roaring the ripping sound of Sim machine guns, launching grenade simulators at likely avenues of approach, and firing actual projectiles at any indication of movement. The fake slugs were water-­filled, gelatin-­encased bullets fired by robot air guns, and although they could cause little harm, they imitated the real thing in an alarming fashion. Just then, a burst chopped through the grass over Mortas's head, spraying him with little droplets of moisture. He rolled several times to his right, and the searching gun turned its attentions elsewhere.

The assault element had approached the grass in an exaggerated crouch, the armored men duckwalking until they'd come under fire. At that instant the line had adopted a movement technique that appeared to follow the rule of every man for himself. Individual soldiers would roll left or right from wherever they had thrown themselves prone—­to confuse any Sim marksman who might have spotted them—­then hop up and rush forward for a few seconds before hitting the deck again. Almost immediately after that, the troops who had been stationary would roll, rise, and rush in the same fashion. It was the most basic of infantry skills, some men moving while others were shooting, and it presented the enemy with an unpredictable series of targets that were exposed for very short periods.

Unfortunately, Mortas had become separated from the men on either side of him and couldn't see anything but a wall of green. Struggling to his feet, he rushed forward with helmet bouncing, Scorpion rifle across his chest to part the grass, and hoping he wasn't going to end up in front of the advancing troops.

Two rubberized doughnuts abruptly pressed down around his ears, one of the reasons that the infantry helmet was referred to as a “grip” by the veterans. Dak's voice came over the radio inside the twin mufflers, telling Berland to shift the machine guns' fire to the far side of the position. Although every member of the platoon could communicate using the helmet radios, the veterans had explained to Mortas that they attempted to stay off the net as much as possible. If everyone began talking, important messages and commands could be lost. Mortas had decided this was a gentle way of telling him that the squad leaders and team leaders could maneuver their men without excessive direction from their new lieutenant.

Dak's message to Berland indicated that at least one squad had reached the closest enemy fighting positions, and so Mortas leapt up and bulled forward. He knew the grass stopped short of the hilltop, and was telling himself to just get to where he could see something when the blades parted abruptly and he spilled out into the open.

It was as if he'd been thrust into a completely different world. Tan-­colored ground rising in front of him for another hundred yards, mostly open with patches of low weeds. Machine gun noise that seemed far off because the dampers in his helmet had snugged down again to protect his ears from the explosions and rifle fire. Twenty yards to his front a dark, ugly slit in a hump of rock, the firing ports of the first Sim emplacement. Light blinking from inside, continuous ripping sounds, a line of small eruptions in the dirt to his right and more water drops on his face. Bracing the Scorpion against the dirt, firing into the slit, ridiculously exposed, but then smoke was blossoming right in front of the bunker.