Terms of Enlistment (17 page)

Some of the troopers from Second Squad are crouching at the edge of the overhang. They’re aiming their rifles skyward, firing bursts at the source of the tracer rounds raking our drop ship. Whoever set up those machine guns knows the capabilities of a Hornet. The ship is most vulnerable sitting on the ground, and the machine guns are high up on rooftops, out of reach of the Hornet’s chin turret and its rapid-fire cannon. The position of the guns is either incredibly fortuitous, or shrewdly planned. I set down the lieutenant, sling his rifle across my chest armor, and then check the loading status of my own weapon. The grenades in my harness are all non-lethal munitions, nothing that could do more than irritate the enemy machine gun crews. In any case, there’s nothing in my assortment of launcher munitions that can reach all the way up to the roof of a thirty-story building.

“Fuckers know what they’re doing,” Sergeant Fallon says, in a tone that’s almost respectful. We watch as the drop ship swerves to the side and swings its tail around, the pilot doing her best to keep the cockpit and the remaining good engine away from the tracers. She tries to lift her ship out of what is now a concrete shot trap, but with one engine damaged, the Hornet is slow on the ascent. The machine guns keep hammering, and the path of the tracers follows the ship. Both streams converge at the cockpit.

The drop ship is a hundred feet above the plaza when it lurches to the side with alarming suddenness. Then the pilot catches the ship, and she swings the tail around and dips the nose down to gain speed. She’s decided to abandon the vertical takeoff, and get out of the kill zone at low level. Her path takes her right past one of the machine gun nests, and the gun stops firing as the drop ship roars past well below rooftop level. The other gun never ceases its steady stream of bursts, and the tracers from the second machine gun follow the Hornet all the way out of the plaza.

Above, a squad or two from Second Platoon have taken up position on the roof of the civil administration building. I can hear the chatter of their rifles as they engage the machine gun nests on the rooftops. The civil building only has six floors, so the machine guns still have the high ground. After a few moments of getting shot at by the TA troopers on the roof above us, the people manning the heavy machine guns decide to take advantage of their position and return the favor. One of the machine guns, the one on the opposite side of the plaza, starts firing again, and this time, the streams of tracers reach out to our building.

“Bravo One, this is Valkyrie Six-One.”

Our drop ship pilot is calling the lieutenant on the platoon channel. She sounds like she’s talking through clenched teeth.

“Valkyrie Six-One, this is Bravo One-One. The Ell-Tee is down. What’s the word on the ride?” Sergeant Fallon replies.

“Ship’s busted,” the pilot says. “My right seater is dead, and I can’t raise my crew chief on comms. Right engine is shot out, and half the shit in my cockpit is blown away. I’m making for…hold on.”

In the distance, the sound from the Hornet’s remaining engine rises sharply, and then cuts out with an ominous finality.

“Valkyrie Six-One, going down,” the pilot matter-of-factly announces over the platoon channel. She sounds as calm and detached as if she’s telling us about tonight’s dinner options at the chow hall.

We can hear the crash of the ship from half a mile away. There’s no explosion, just a monstrous racket, like someone dropping a giant bag of screws and bolts onto a hard deck. After a few moments, the noise stops.

For a few heartbeats, there is dead silence on the squad and platoon channels. Even the machine guns and rifles overhead have stopped firing.

“Well,
fuck
,” Sergeant Fallon exclaims. Then she toggles into the platoon channel.

“We have a drop ship down, people. Valkyrie Six-One is down in the PRC.”

Overhead, the tracers from the heavy machine gun rake the roof where the Second Platoon grunts have taken up position. We’re not tied into their comms, but I can tell from the yelling and shouting drifting down that things aren’t going so well.

Sergeant Fallon peeks out from underneath the overhang and looks into the night sky, where the tracers from the machine guns reach out to our building like swarms of very angry fireflies.

“Getting our asses kicked by a bunch of welfare rats,” she mutters. Then she toggles the comm switch and talks into her helmet mike. I don’t hear anything on the platoon or squad channels, which means she’s tied into Company.

“Valkyrie Six-Four, this is Bravo One-One. Valkyrie Six-One is down, a three-quarter klick to the east of our position. We have heavy guns on the rooftops, and they’re kicking the shit out of Second Platoon. I suggest you clear off those roof positions, and then see what you can see at the crash site, over.”

She listens to Valkyrie Six-Four’s response, and switches to the platoon channel once more.

“Second Platoon’s bird is making an attack run, people. Keep your heads down.”

Valkyrie Six-Four doesn’t waste any time. The first evidence of their attack run is a streak of cannon fire from above and the distant roaring of the Hornet’s multi-barreled pod cannons. The rooftop of the building on the other side of the plaza erupts in a shower of sparks as the cannon rounds rake the position of the heavy machine gun. The machine gun falls silent, and a moment later the drop ship appears overhead, thundering over the plaza nearly at rooftop level as it pulls up from its strafing run. I notice that some of the cannon fire missed the rooftop ledge and hit the apartments directly below. Several windows on the thirtieth floor are blown out, and a few cannon rounds have torn huge holes into the concrete sheets that make up the outer wall of the tenement high rise. Chunks of window plastics and concrete are raining down onto the plaza.

“Bravo One-One, Valkyrie Six-One,” comes the voice of the drop ship pilot over the platoon channel. I can hear cockpit alarms blaring in the background of the transmission.

“I read you, Six-One. What’s your status?” Sergeant Fallon replies.

“The ship is fucked. I’m right side up in the middle of the fucking street. Avionics and comms have power, but my chin turret’s out. My crew chief and right seater are dead, I think. I could really use a hand here.”

“Six-One, sit tight. We’re going to come out and fetch you. Keep those hatches sealed. You’re in a shitty neighborhood.”

“Copy that. I’m not going anywhere.”

“We have you on TacLink,” Sergeant Fallon says. “We’ll be there shortly.”

I stare at Sergeant Fallon as she cuts the comm link.
She wants to go out there, on foot?

“We’ll leave the Ell-Tee with Third Squad,” she says to me. “Grab his ammo. We’re going to go for a little walk.”

“First Squad, form up on me,” she calls into the squad channel. I remove Lieutenant Weaving’s magazines from their pouches and fill up the empty pouch on my harness before stuffing the rest of the ammunition into the side pockets of my leg armor.

“Nobody’s ever been in a firefight and complained about having too many bullets with them,” Sergeant Fallon says to me.

“I guess not,” I reply and close the flap on the magazine pouch with an unsteady hand. The last thing I want to do right now is to go out into the streets of the PRC, away from the rest of the platoon.

The rest of First Squad comes up at a run—Stratton and Hansen in the lead, then Jackson, Priest, Baker, and finally Paterson and Philips.

“What’s the plan, Sarge?” Baker asks as the squad gathers around us.

“Our ride is less than a klick that way,” Sergeant Fallon says, marking the route on our TacLink displays as she speaks. “We have at least one pilot alive, so we’re going to go out there, fetch our crew, and activate the demo charge on the drop ship. We’re not leaving all that ordnance for the locals to pick up.”

“A night out on the town,” Stratton says. “See, Grayson? And you were complaining they never let us out of the base.”

“Yeah, well, forget I ever opened my mouth,” I reply with a grin. Stratton’s cheery mood seems to be indestructible, but I find that his levity has a calming effect on me.

“Let’s get it done,” Sergeant Fallon says. She checks the loading status of her rifle, and steps out into the plaza.

“Stagger it loosely, people, and watch your sectors. If in doubt, you shoot first and apologize later. And toss those rubber rounds. Anyone out on the street after this fireworks show, they’re out to get a piece of us.”

We move out into the streets of the PRC. The authorities have finally gotten around to shutting off the power grid to the rebellious welfare clusters, so the street lights are all out. There are, however, plenty of burning vehicles and trash containers all over the place. Our helmet imaging sensors automatically provide us with optimal visuals—low light magnification, thermal imaging, and about three dozen other filters. The people we’re up against don’t have the luxury of military-grade sensors, but for some reason they have a pretty good idea of where we are. We see small groups of rioters dashing across streets and into alleyways up ahead. They keep well away from us, and nobody’s pointing weapons, but for some reason I feel like I’m back at the Urban Warfare center in Basic and we’re walking into a staged exercise.

PRC Detroit is a complete shithole. The area around the civic center was a showcase neighborhood compared to the dilapidation of the streets beyond. Back home in Boston, our buildings were ugly, but mostly intact. Here in Detroit, the welfare tenements are twice as ugly, and half of them are in various states of ruin. One or two lots out of every block are just foundations, or demolished buildings that have a floor and a half of crumbling structure remaining, like broken teeth in an already unhealthy jawline. There’s nobody in those empty lots as we trot by, weapons at the ready, but the burning trash cans and scatterings of food boxes are evidence that the residents of those ruins aren’t far away.

“Bravo One-One, Valkyrie Six-Four. We’re circling overhead and we have you guys on Tactical. Be advised, you have a group of IPs shadowing you on the street parallel to yours, on your four o’clock.”

Our TacNet displays update with dozens of red carets, clustered in the street to our right and keeping pace with our squad.

“Copy,” Sergeant Fallon responds. “How’s the crash site look, Six-Four?”

“It’s clear right now, but there’s a bunch of the local rabble converging on the site, from the looks of it. I suggest you don’t take your time down there.”

“You can bet your ass on that, Six-Four.”

“What the hell are they doing?” Paterson asks. “First they run into our rifles to get a piece of us, and now they’re backing off.”

“They’re not backing off, dummy,” Corporal Jackson says. “They’re waiting until we’re all the way in the bag. They know where we’re going.”

“Stop the chit-chat and keep formation,” Sergeant Fallon says. “We’re half a klick out. Double-time, people. Let’s hoof it before the welfare rats get a hold of the armory on that boat.”

The drop ship is right in the middle of a major intersection, which is bad news because it’s out in the open and vulnerable from all four sides. The starboard engine is still smoking, its armored nacelle showing multiple holes from armor-piercing rounds. The port engine is running on idle, emitting a low droning sound. A half dozen locals have beaten us to the site, and they’re banging on the side hatch and jumping up and down on the cockpit roof, oblivious of our approach in the darkness.

Sergeant Fallon makes our presence known by aiming her rifle and firing a single round without breaking stride. The rioter on top of the drop ship falls off the cockpit roof and then hits the pavement below without any attempt to catch his fall. The others hear the rifle shot and scatter like roaches at the sound of a light switch. We let them run off and then rush up to the wounded drop ship.

“Six-One, we’re right outside. Open the side hatch, if you can.”

“Stand by,” the pilot says. “I have a few broken bones here.”

I walk up to the right side of the cockpit and look inside. The right-seater is slumped over in his armored chair, and the untidy hole in the side of his flight helmet leaves no doubt about his condition. The right cockpit side has taken a beating from the large-caliber machine gun rounds, and one of them finally weakened the polycarbonate enough to let a round or two into the cockpit. Valkyrie Six-One’s copilot had the misfortune to sit right in the trajectory.

I watch as the pilot undoes her harness latches, and then tries to get out of her seat. The scream that follows is loud enough to reach my ears through the armored canopy.

“Sarge, her legs are broken. Hang on.” I tap on the side of the cockpit.

“Six-One, can you blow the emergency jettison on the canopy?”

The pilot gives me a weak nod and an even weaker thumbs-up and reaches for the red-and-yellow handle on her side of the cockpit.

“You folks may want to stand back,” she says. “Like, way back.”

We retreat to the side of the street, well away from the canopy panels.

“Go ahead, Six-One. We’re clear.”

The panels of the drop ship’s canopy detach with a muffled crack. We rush up to the cockpit, and Jackson hands her rifle to Paterson before climbing over the side and into the now-open pilot station.