The Heart of Valour (32 page)

“I heard that. What do you expect them to find?”

“I don’t expect them to find anything, sir, although they might. If the scenario
was
set up as a house-to-house…”

“And that would be the logical assumption based on the way the Corps has used settlements like this in the past.”

“…then there could be items of value in some of those buildings intended to be found.”

“Wasn’t the entire settlement checked last night?”

“Only for drones, sir.”

“I see.” He sucked air through his teeth as Dr. Sloan unsealed the front of his bodyliner and ran an extension out of her slate along his collarbone. “That’s cold.”

“Yes, it is.”

When that seemed to be all the response he was going to get, he sighed and returned his attention to Torin. “After two days’ hard humping, you wouldn’t think you’d need to keep this lot busy.”

Torin glanced at the doctor and chose her words carefully. The problem was not one a civilian needed to be advised of. “Marines need to be Marines, sir.”

A pale brow rose. “Do they?” He stared at her for a long moment, and she thought she saw understanding dawn. He was too good an officer not to have seen what was happening. “I leave it in your hands, then, Gunny. Not that I could get involved even if I wanted to—Dr. Sloan is giving me a full workup before we start getting shot at again. She seems to think I’m flagging a bit.”

If flagging meant running on nearly empty, stressing new body parts, and likely to fall flat on his face at an inopportune moment, then, yeah, Torin could agree with that. And if he’d been up early enough to get the CPN running, he hadn’t gotten much sleep.

“It’s hardly a full workup,” the doctor snorted. “I’m sure you remember what those are like, Major, and this is a lot less intrusive.” She sounded as if she regretted that.

He indicated his slate. “While I was being molecularly dissected, I got a head start on writing up my report. How would you prefer to be referred to, Gunny? As rising heroically to meet the situation head-on or more than a little pissed about the whole thing?”

“Somewhere between the two would be fine, sir.”

Neither of them mentioned that the major’s slate might survive where they didn’t and anything he wrote would have to tell their story for them. Neither of them had to.

As the two sergeants came into the room, the major set his slate aside and caught Dr. Sloan gently around the wrist with his good hand. “That’s it, Doc. All we’ve got time for.”

She frowned, first at his hand then into his face. “I’m not done.”

“Bookmark it, then, because I need to meet with my people.”

“I’d rather finish.”

“And I’d rather be on Ventris drinking a cold beer and fairly certain no one was going to try and blow me up. Unfortunately, neither of us is going to get what we want.” He continued to hold her wrist until she moved the slate away and then he released her.

“You’re still my patient,” she pointed out sharply.

“And their commanding officer,” he told her, nodding toward the line of NCOs. “Right now, and until the
Nirwentry
returns, that comes first.”

As the major pulled his combats back up over his shoulders, Dr. Sloan turned to Torin, clearly about to plead her case. Whatever she saw in Torin’s face both snapped her mouth shut and propelled her toward the door. Where she paused. “I want to go on record as opposing this interruption. Your health…”

“Is not more important than my Marines, Doctor. If there’s time later, I’m at your disposal.”

No mistaking the dismissal. Dr. Sloan pivoted on one good-to-forty-below heel and stomped out of the room.

All four of them remained silent while her footsteps echoed in the stairwell and then disappeared on the lower level. Torin figured she’d gone to check on Staff Sergeant Beyhn and wondered if patients who didn’t talk back counted as spending quality time.

Major Svensson glanced over at the window in the second-floor medical center—empty of anything that might be considered medical and then trashed by the “Others” as part of the scenario—and then back at the NCOs. “So, what do we do when the drones arrive; do we hunker down and assume the anchor can take anything they can throw at us for the next seven days, or do we stand up and fight?”

Both sergeants looked to Torin. “Unfortunately, sir, as much as I might prefer to have the platoon sit safely undercover waiting for the
NirWentry
to return and put the fear of her not inconsiderable guns into the Others—not to mention let loose two squadrons of vacuum jockeys bored out of their tiny minds by flying exercises around a transport run—that can’t happen. The anchor has weaknesses that the drones will exploit.”

“Which are?”

“We still haven’t found the rest of the plates that reseal the windows—both up here on the second floor and the smaller ones on the first floor. Debris from the explosion at the power station smashed through one of them, proving that high impact polymer or not, they’ll still shatter with the right incentive. Also, they open and that weakens their structural integrity.”

“Open windows aren’t unusual in a new colony,” Annatahwee put in. “Low-tech solution to the ventilation problem.”

Torin nodded. “True, but I’m surprised the Corps bothered installing them in an imaginary colony.”

“Perhaps they picked the anchor up surplus with them already in place,” the major offered.

Jiir’s nose ridges flared. “More likely that they were expecting recruits to shoot out them during the scenario, sir.”

“Then in fine Marine Corps tradition, we’ll just have to exceed expectations.” He glanced over at Torin. “Were the windows our only weakness, Gunny?”

“No, sir.”

“The fact that the outer doors no longer seal is really moot as long as we don’t take the anchor into space.”

“Yes, sir.” She smiled politely. Even good officers, officers who were in every other way a joy to serve under, wanted their attempts at humor acknowledged. “Private Iful is certain he can secure it without making it unusable.”

“Go Iful.”

“Yes, sir. Our biggest problem concerns the hole in the roof.” She handed off to Annatahwee.

“We know there’s fliers in this section, sir—we were due to run into one on day fifteen, and I’ve heard of at least two more in other section scenarios. Three definitely, maybe more. When they pass over the anchor, they’re going to read the hole.”

“And having read it, will return and drop something explosive in it. What’s your solution? Can we put the hatch back in place?”

“No, sir, the bennies were drained cutting it out. But we have a team dismantling the metal stalls in the nonoperative latrine.”

“And one of those pieces will stop what a flier can throw down? That’s one high-tensile crapper.”

“Not exactly, sir.” One of those pieces couldn’t even stop the round from a KC-7 that Torin had shot into it. “We’re going to stack two pieces, work them through on the diagonal, then wrap them in a shelter half before laying them over the hole.”

“And the shelter half is for…?”

“Camouflage, sir. To hide the fact that the pieces aren’t actually a part of the roof.”

“You think that’ll work, Gunny?”

She wouldn’t have ordered it done if she didn’t at least hope it would work. “Yes, sir.”

“So…” Torin turned with him to look at the sergeants. “… what’s coming at us?”

“Shouldn’t be that much of a problem, sir.” Jiir glanced over at Annatahwee who indicated he should continue. “We’ve never run into a flier in a scenario that had more than a five-tube, light-weight launcher. Crucible usually uses air support to make a point, and once that point’s made, then it’s all small caliber chaser rounds—no real danger unless a platoon’s caught in the open.”

Torin gave him the chaser rounds, but… “You can make one hell of a point firing five rockets. And in a scenario, the fliers wouldn’t be shooting to kill.”

“Yeah, but most of those rockets are flashbangs.”

“Most,” Torin repeated. “And the rest?” Because if most were, then some weren’t.

“Gas if the platoon holds a position long enough to be taken down, incendiaries sometimes and…”

“And sometimes Crucible goes for the big bang,” Annatahwee finished. “Blast fragmentation warheads with impact det fuses.”

Major Svensson stared at her in astonishment. “Fired at training platoons.”

Torin felt as appalled as the major sounded. She’d seen the damage those things could do, and the thought of recruits coming under fire from their own side…

“They’re not generally fired at the recruits, sir.” Annatahwee explained a bit defensively. “Just near enough they get the idea.”

“And what’s the idea?” he demanded. “That sometimes artillery makes you shit yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sorry, I asked.”

“If the fliers are packing actual heat, there’s never been more than one in five, sir.”

“I think one in five is sufficient, thank you, Sergeant. And given that our friend the sunken tank seemed to be carrying an unlimited supply of high explosives, I’m not counting on the fliers to be shooting blanks.”

“Not exactly easy to hit a meter-square window moving at speed, sir.”

He snorted. “Even the bad guys get lucky occasionally, Gunny. Any other surprises we should know about. High-heat, high-pressure thermobaric warheads maybe?”

The sergeants blinked in unison. “No, sir.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“The drones won’t be able to reload sir,” Jiir put in quickly. “Once they’ve fired their five, that’s it.”

“But we don’t know how many are on the way,” Torin reminded them. “At least three—and that’s fifteen chances we’ll get a BFW—but no top number. We could get waves of them as they’re pulled in from progressively farther into the section. Or pulled in from other sections.”

The major turned to stare at her. “Thank you, Gunny.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

“How adaptable are these fliers, Sergeant?”

Jiir glanced at Annatahwee and answered. “Sir?”

“The Others won’t have programmed in the specs of the building. If they just fly to where they can get a lock on the building and fire, then it’s a crap shoot if they hit anything they can penetrate, but if they take a bounce at the building and analyze the structure on a flyby, then they’ll be aiming at the windows and the hole in the roof.” Sliding off the exam table, he picked up his vest. “Not a problem if they’re firing training rockets, but…”

“…if they’re firing a frag rocket, then we’re in trouble.” Torin finished when it became clear he wasn’t going to.

“You’re a joy to work with, Gunny.” Together, they turned their attention on Sergeant Jiir. “Adaptable,” the major prodded.

“Yes, sir. In scenarios, the fliers are able to determine where the recruits are so as not to hit them.”

“Then if they’ve been ordered
to
hit the recruits…”

“They can find them, sir.”

So instead of being camouflaged, the platoon would be going into battle with a nice big target painted on them and they had nothing big enough to jam the flier’s scanners. Scanners… Torin frowned. “What’s the range on most of these things, Sergeant?”

“Depends on the scenario,” Annatahwee answered. “There’s training benefits to having them roar in up close and personal, and there’s benefits to having them fire from maximum range and just having the rockets appear as if…”

“By magic,” the major finished dryly.

“Yes, sir. But they fire from maximum range in response to one or more of the recruits sending up an energy signal that can be read by the enemy. It’s a cause-and-effect part of the training.”

“Intended to teach them not to send up energy signals that can be read by the enemy?”

“Yes, sir. If we give them no reason to fire at distance, then they’ll roar straight in close for maximum psychological effect.”

“And the maximum psychological effect is once again getting them to shit themselves?”

“Sir.”
Don’t poke at the sergeants,
Torin’s tone said clearly.
What happens on Crucible isn’t their fault.
“When you say straight in,” she asked Annatahwee, “do you mean no evasive maneuvers? Just…” She drew a line in the air. When the sergeant nodded, she grinned. “Then close in is better for us. If the fliers are in range of our weapons before they fire rockets, we have a chance to take them down.”

The major’s brows rose and both sergeants turned to stare.

“You packing a sammy you neglected to mention there, Gunny?”

“No, sir. If they’re coming in a straight line, the scanners can plot their course and massed fire from the nines…”

He nodded. “Good thing we found that ammo. Best shooters from each team on the roof, and we try to take the bastards out. What kind of armor are these things wearing?”

“Not much,” Jiir admitted. “They’re drones, and weight is an issue. Even if a recruit gets off a shot during a rocket attack, a single 7 or even a 9 won’t do much.”

“Since we’ll be using all nine heavies, that’s good news for us.”

“Sir, all the drones adapt to being shot at and if I were reprogramming them, that’s not something I’d change.” Jiir’s nose ridges had closed tight. He obviously wasn’t happy. “If the fliers aren’t destroyed, they’ll target the roof. We’d have to be very lucky to not lose everyone up there.”

“If the flier isn’t destroyed and it’s packing anything more than a training rocket, we run the risk of losing everyone in the building, so let’s assume the fliers will be destroyed.” Major Svensson ran a hand back over his head and sighed. “Gunny.”

“Sir?”

“Assumptions make a lousy battle plan. Come up with a contingency in case the fliers aren’t immediately destroyed.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

He could see the southwest corner of the anchor, which meant he could see the southwest corner of the big common room where Staff Sergeant Beyhn lay fighting the change. It was wrong, it was so wrong that a qui would be here, in danger. Even more wrong that he wasn’t over there with him, protecting the future of the…

And that was where it got weird. He’d never spent time with a qui who wasn’t a member of his own family, either by blood or by ritual. Just what, exactly, was he protecting the future of? The Taykan? Fuk that. There were plenty of Taykan around. Staff Sergeant Beyhn’s family?