"An important difference between a military operation and a surgical operation is that the patient is not tied down. But it is a common fault of generalship to assume that he is."
—Captain Sir Basil H. Liddell Hart
The next sign of trouble was as sudden as the previous ones and not even Naumann had been able to accurately predict it. The first hint was Jump Point One losing communication. That was unusual and possibly bad, but didn't immediately register as a threat. When JP2 lost signal, it was obvious an attack was under way. Scramble signals went out, but massive amounts of UN firepower were moving insystem. JP3 was offline shortly thereafter, followed by several outer commercial stations. Research facilities in the outer Halo could not be reached, but often didn't maintain open carriers. By the time they could report either way, the trouble would be over.
The lightspeed lag gave several divs for fast-moving teams to overwhelm or destroy facilities in the system's outer fringes. Unknown to the military was that several carriers had already silently positioned themselves. With no emissions they weren't seen and the force was far too large to stop, especially when it took out communications as it headed insystem rather than attempting control from the inside out. The UN command staff had learned from its first mistake and had sufficient force for a real invasion now. The landing craft that deployed were too numerous to be taken out and escorted by aerospace support vehicles as well. Several died on their way down, but the rest landed, shattered the orbital and air defense systems and went after the host sites with a vengeance.
Kendra spun the wheel hard, cutting across the corner of a charge station. Angry yells and horns followed her. She floored the throttle, listening to the turbine howl, then backed off as she approached the gate. All she knew was that there was a general emergency recall. She'd been in town, picking up a purchase for the unit, when her comm had screamed. Whatever it was, it was not an exercise.
She had her ID in hand and announced, "Pacelli, Kendra A., Corporal, Logistics, Third Mob," as the guard waved a scanner at her. His partner and the dog took a quick walk around her vehicle. The animal handler nodded.
The guard tilted the muzzle of his weapon at the sky and said, "Report directly to the airfac, Corporal and don't worry about traffic. Most of 'em have already lifted."
She nodded, nailed the turbine again and cut across the parade field. She met a little traffic around the admin section, slowed slightly and picked up speed at Perimeter Road. Less than two segs later she rolled into the air facility.
There were no security troops on the line. It was a madhouse. Vehicles rolled around at high speed, way too close to the aircraft. People jumped between them and most weren't wearing line badges or safety gear. She jumped out, grabbing her comm, her rifle and her blade and caught the arm of the nearest person. "Third mob?" she yelled over the roar of equipment. It was barely audible.
"Ahh . . . Over there!" the tech bellowed back, indicating a row of vertols. She nodded and ran.
Approaching the idling craft, she saw a sergeant from base engineering. "You take this one!" he ordered, pointing. "Flight engineer returning soon, lifting next!"
She ran up the ramp, the noise diminishing slightly and heard a voice over the intercom ask, "Hido?"
"No, if that's your engineer, he's still out."
"Understood. Don't let anyone who arrives leave. We have a launch warning and an attack warning. We may lift without notice."
"Understood," she replied, grabbing a seat on the cargo web and buckling in, adjusting the helmet frequency to that of the intercom. She looped her sword across her chest, fastened her comm to her arm, locked her rifle into a slot and waited.
It was only about a seg later when the pilot announced, "Lifting!" The engine noise rose with that warning and the craft bounced slightly. The hatch closed and gees pushed Kendra down and back. The turbines boosted quickly to a painful howl and the vertol sought altitude, heading north.
"Whoever's in charge back there, report!"
"Pacelli, Corporal, Third Mob Logistics. Sole occupant," she replied, looking around.
"Great," the pilot replied, "You were supposed to be on the other side of the flightline. And they are already out of here."
"Sorry," Kendra replied. "Instructions got mixed up."
A brilliant light flashed through the ports and the pilot yelled, "Shock wave!" The tail pitched up and over, hanging Kendra momentarily upside down, blood rushing painfully to her head and sinuses. The craft tumbled, righted and yawed left. Kendra swallowed hard as it accelerated again and the pilot announced, "Clear."
"Nuke?" Kendra asked. She had a few bruises from the ride.
"Kinetic. Doesn't matter; the base is gone along with anyone still on the ground. It appears we are going to be friends for a while. I'm Nick, my friends call me 'Cowboy.' "
"Kendra."
"Pleased to meet you. Sort of. You'll find gear back there; grab a ruck, you'll need it.
"My instructions are to take this unit," he paused at the irony of the statement, "into Darkwood Hills and drop them there. You'll meet up with Resident Militia and any reservists you can find. Await orders or fight the war, as the case may be. You were supposed to be a squad of SpecWarfare folks."
"Sorry," Kendra replied, her guts roiling in fear and sadness for the tens or hundreds who'd died to get her and the others off the ground.
"So am I. We've got company coming, buckle down if you aren't. I hope violent maneuvers don't make you sick." It sounded like a challenge.
"I was a passenger with Rob McKay once," she returned.
"Rob—Well, I'd like to state for the record that I can fly rings around that maniac. But I'd be lying. I saw some of his airyobatics on Mtali."
"Can I inventory this ruck?" she asked.
"By touch. Keep it strapped," he warned.
"Understood." She rummaged in the harness and had to take several deep breaths to calm her nerves. She was shaking uncontrollably, and clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering. Sheer will gave her some outward semblance of control and she resumed her sorting. She found a full infantry load, extra medical supplies and explosives and extra ammo. There was a pack of field rations and a laser designator.
"Interceptors and hills," Cowboy advised as the maneuvers started. Kendra went into free fall as they came over a peak, was slammed down and to the left, banging her chin. She shook her head and was thankful her teeth were still clenched. She might have bitten her tongue otherwise. The craft decelerated, sliding her across the deck webbing, then the floor dropped out again as they reached a valley. She felt the craft pitch up, centripetal force pinning her against the floor as it became the wall. She could see trees through the port, then sky again as the craft finished its inversion. She stared down at the roof in fear as gees crushed her up against the floor. She was held in place as they pointed back into a gorge. Then the lifter rolled out. It wouldn't have been so scary if she could see, but except for an occasional shadow through the ports, there was nothing but shifting Iolight.
"Air superiority got one interceptor, orbital got a second. But we can't do this for long in a cargo lifter. You are getting out asap. Put on a rig, with a static line. You ever done what ess-double-yoo calls a 'suicide drop'?"
"No," Kendra said, wide-eyed as she pulled a parachute rig from the bulkhead. Another maneuver threw it hard against her. She clutched it and reached for a helmet. Long and repetitive training was all that let her run through the prep, as her brain was numb with fear. Again, she forced her knotting and trembling fingers to steady as they fumbled fasteners.
"Well, at least you've jumped. You'll be going out the side door. I'll drop into a valley, pull the nose up and yaw left. Inertia will pull you out. 'Chute drogues on the way up, you swing twice and hit the trees. Everything goes right, they'll never see you. Anything goes wrong . . . but it shouldn't."
Another violent maneuver caught her as she attempted to sling the ruck between her legs. She strapped her blade and rifle to her sides, clutched the static line and crawled toward the forward troop door, knees grating painfully on the corrugated deck.
She dragged herself up the frame, fastened the clip to the bar provided and said, "Ready!" She'd thought she was scared before. Now fear was starting to hit with a passion. Steely control of her breathing distracted her from the impending nightmare.
"Opening door. Sit and hang on tight, I may maneuver," he warned.
The door slid and latched open with a cold roar of slipstream, leaving her above a landscape tearing by in a blur.
"One last thing," he warned. "You don't have leg armor, so keep 'em crossed when you hit the trees or you risk tearing your femoral arteries. Stand in the door! Or sit, in this case."
"Cowboy!" she called.
"Yo!"
"For what it's worth, you can tell you friends that Rob McKay's ladyfriend says you give as sexy a ride as he does." She didn't feel as brave as she sounded, but a façade did help a little.
"Thanks, Lady," he replied. "Over this ridge and stand by . . ."
Free fall caught her again as they crested the hill, green and yellow trees below. Gees started to build as they arced out, then dropped away as the craft went ballistic. "On three," he warned and the craft began to yaw. "One! Two! Three! Get the hell out of my airc—"
She was ripped out the door by the violent rotation, arms trailing. A distant clang of the static line link striking the fuselage was drowned out by the turbines. Deceleration caught her as the 'chute grabbed air. Blue sky turned dizzyingly to bright green trees, to blinding Io, to trees again, and she closed her legs tightly as those trees came up hard.
Fortunately, she was swinging forward as she hit the treetops. A thin branch slapped across her like a whip. Her descent became more vertical, then back again and a heavy limb crunched against the harness. She gasped, air knocked out, and heard the sound of the interceptors screaming after Cowboy. Pain shot through her leg as her heel hit a bough hard, then the trees were ripping at her all over. She jerked to a stop.
Several ragged breaths were necessary before she could get oriented. She was about three meters above the ground, being poked by twigs and branches. She pulled the standard-issue hook knife from the rig, cut selected bits of webbing and succeeded in getting within two meters of the ground. She lowered the ruck, cut the last strap and landed.
She didn't scream, although the pain was searing. Biting her lip, she limped slightly away from the gear, caught a nearby bush and got untangled. She decided her first priority was to urinate desperately.
That taken care of, she examined her injuries. Bruised or fractured ribs below the left shoulderblade, sprained or broken right ankle, severe welt on right side of neck, shallow puncture wound in right outer thigh and a nail torn completely off her left ring finger. Digging in the medical kit, she dropped antibiotic and sealer into her thigh, took a general reconstructive nano for the rest of it, along with a light painkiller—she'd need her wits—and proceeded to sterilize and dress her finger. She winced in pain, but got it done. She sat back against a tree to rest for a moment.
She opened her eyes, confused. It was dark. Great, she thought. I'm supposed to be finding whatever local authority there is, not napping. She opened her comm to report in and stopped, for the dim glowing screen had a message waiting.
"All personnel: Do not report. Remove transponder from all comm equipment. Proceed as ordered. Additional information will follow."
She stared for a second, then cleared the message. A few taps gained her instructions on how to remove the transponder block and she stuck the deactivated component in a pocket of her ruck. It might be useful later. She couldn't think in what fashion, but it might. She also knew now why the comm was a flat block of hardware, rather than a flexible single molding. There was actually a small amount of maintenance and modification that could be done to it.
Suddenly, fear caught up to her. The deep woods of the Northern Border were no place for a person raised in a modern city. Remembering her training, she forced herself to get up and deal with it. Ignoring her training, she turned on a torch.
In a few segs, she had a small fire going in a shallow pit. It provided a little heat and a lot of comfort. She set her shelter up near the base of the tree and crawled in. Fuel was within arm's reach and so was the fire. She chewed on a ration package while keeping the dim flames going to build up enough coals to keep the fire self-supporting. Once done, she snuggled back into her sleeping bag, rifle in one hand, thumb on safety and sword in the other, tip above her head.
Sleep didn't come. There were sounds in the forest and she was too terrified to move. She felt bladder pressure again, clamped down on it. Gingerly, she added another small stick to the fire, still clutching her rifle in the other hand. She felt all kinds of sensations and realized she was panicking.
This is stupid! she told herself. You are a combat vet from Mtali. This is just a forest. You've killed a ripper that wanted you for lunch. There's nothing here as dangerous as you. The words were logical and ineffective. She took to watching seconds pass on her comm. Tears welled up from accumulated shock, as she realized that friends were dead, her two home planets were killing each other, her worldview had just been destroyed for the third or maybe fourth time and that this night was subjectively going to last forever.
Eventually, she thought she could see some gray in the shadowy trees. She compared time to predicted sunrise and realized night was almost over. She huddled, twitching until the sky was faintly visible through the foliage, then jumped out to relieve herself again. The air was frigid, and she hurried back to her shelter, crawling in and finally falling deeply asleep.
She woke in filtered but bright Iolight and stirred slightly. Stretching, she was jarred awake at the sight of a rifle muzzle.
"Don't move," a rough male voice commanded. "Let's see your hands."
Sliding them cautiously overhead, she spoke firmly, "Corporal Kendra Pacelli, Third Mobile Assault Regiment."
"You got an aardvark accent there, lady."
Aardvark. Earth pig. She gritted her teeth at the derogatory term and replied, "I'm an immigrant about three years back."
"Uh-huh. Where you been living?" The man asked. She saw he had friends. Three of them. Two other men and a young woman. Her old Earth habits found the woman's presence a reassurance.
"Jefferson, until they canceled my indent. I've been at Heilbrun Base since."
"Jefferson, huh? So which side of Liberty Park is the Council building?"
"Twelve blocks north."
"Name some good bars."
"Stanley's Surf n' Turf; good food, too. Level Three if you like dancing. Bellefontaine if you have a ton of money and like a good show—"
"All right, you'll do. And you move in richer circles than I ever did. You can get out now, Corporal."
"I dunno, Dak. I'd like to see some references," one of the others said.
"You heard of Citizen Humberto Hernandez? Friend of mine. Last year on Heritage Day we unveiled a new four-stage pyrotechnic shell that got everyone's attention. My sword comes from Mike Cardiff, if you've heard of him." She was angry now, although she understood their caution. She knew she was still in shock and was trying hard not to crack.
"Easy, lady. Corporal," Dak corrected himself. "I believe you." He offered a hand and helped her out of the small tent. She grimaced in pain and he gave her more support. "My sister-in-law is a nurse. We'll take you to where she is. Kyle, help with the gear," he ordered one of the three others. The young man nodded and shouldered her heavy ruck quite casually. The woman collapsed the shelter and gathered up the few other items. By the time they were done, the traces of fire were gone, as were those signs left by the shelter.
Not much was said on the way to the house. Kendra tried to remember the route, got lost immediately. She surmised they were near the north edge of the woods, as the trees thinned out slightly. Shortly, they entered marked fields and approached a small farmstead. She was glad to see it; her ankle was throbbing in pain. Her ribs, thigh and hand were tight aches that simply contrasted the pain in her ankle to an extreme.
As they neared the house, Kendra saw signs of others, also armed. Dak knocked for entrance and Kendra was quickly handed over to his sister-in-law Vikki for care. She was married to Kyle, Sandra was married to Dak and the younger man Brian was their son. The other two children were Eric, who looked about ten Earth years and Riga, a cheerfully bright-eyed two-year-old.
"You'll be fine. But that ankle is going to need lots of support. Keep it bandaged." Vikki Simonsen told her after a brief exam.
"Will do. So, Dak, what's the tactical situation here? And have you heard any news?"
"Only secondhand," he said. "They hit Maygida, Heilbrun and Merrill. Kinetic kills. Serious damage to the surrounding towns. They're landing a large number of troops. The cities are being occupied. I can't give you more than that at this time."
Nodding, she said, "Okay. What kind of force do we have here? I need a complete list."
"Well, we've . . . twenty-three adults in the surrounding farms. At least one rifle each. Several hundred rounds per. Some shotguns and pistols for defense at home. A few grenades—we picked them up cheap for blasting rocks. We have about a thousand kilos of commercial blasting agents, castable and plastic, no flake type. Usual night vision gear and we've got radios of course, some with scramble. Ten or so trucks, six cars and plenty of horses. Standard navigation gear for land management. There's plenty of food—we are a commercial producer, so no worries there."
Kendra frowned. "That's a very light squad. I hope we can find some support weapons." The UN organized its squads with eight soldiers: a leader, a squad weapon gunner and three buddy pairs with rifle/grenade launchers. The Freehold used twenty-troop squads, in three teams of six with a squad leader and assistant. The third team carried one each of an antitank launcher, heavy machinegun and a sniper rifle and was organized as pairs, one spotting and supporting, the other shooting. They put out a lot more fire than a UN squad, assuming one had the weapons.
"I'll check. What do you have planned?"
"Any veterans here?" she asked, stalling. She had no plans yet.
"No. My older brother is aboard the Heinlein," he said, "but no one here has experience otherwise."
"Okay," she said. "Then until I get more intelligence, we are going to limit activities to training only. I'll try to organize a program." She realized this was going to be a very difficult task.
"You stay off that ankle, Corporal," Vikki ordered her.
"Plan on it," she agreed.
Dak and his wife Sandra—the woman who'd been with him to pick her up, cleared a room for her. The house was a sprawling ranch and had plenty of space. It took Kendra the rest of the day to recover from the drop and half the next to convince them of the need to begin training. "If we are going to fight them, we have to be in shape. That means drilling." They finally relented, on condition she sit while they practiced under her guidance.
Kendra had cribbed as much information as she could from her comm the night before. The section on training insurgents was long, detailed and made a lot of sense. Most of it could not be used under her current circumstances. The book called for everyone, instructors and students, to exercise together, to lead by example and boost morale. She couldn't do that, currently. The risk of observation required that they practice at night, especially when cloudy, which was good training, since guerrilla warfare worked better when the enemy was handicapped by as many factors as possible. The daytime tasks of running a farm made that very tiring, annoying and stressful. This was good for practice also, but bad for morale among those who had never put the training to use and seen its benefits. There was insufficient ammunition for extended practice. "I can hit a human target five times out of six while running through heavy smoke," she explained, "but I shoot . . . shot . . . several hundred rounds weekly. We don't have that option."
Still, they took her advice earnestly and seriously, despite their complaints. Her ankle began to heal and she forced herself into hated exercise to restore the strength. She found her capacity waning without the amino boosters she was used to taking. She hadn't had a lifetime's exposure to higher gravity, a cultural emphasis on physical activity, nor the sheer upper body strength of the male physique. Every time she turned around, another handicap slapped her.
She gave regular pep talks to increase flagging morale, including her own, as the comm reported greater and greater "progress" of the UN's "development of the system." Two weeks went by and summer heat made their civil and military tasks more obnoxious.
One morning, Kyle burst into her room. She was sleeping naked above the covers and wasn't fazed, although her brain still took a moment to readapt to the local mores. "Corporal! Quickly! Urgent message!" he said, then turned and ran.
She rolled out, grabbed her rifle in one hand and clothes in the other and tracked Kyle's progress. She found him and the others gathered around the vidsat receptor. He was opening a toolkit.
Pulling on pants, she asked, "What goes?"
"Look at the reception meter," Dak said.
She looked. It was fluctuating wildly. "You can't fix it? Or is the satellite being captured?" she asked.
"No, no," he said, shaking his head. "This caused us to kick onto fault mode, but it is receiving. The control signal is acting oddly though, and is far too active."
"I noticed it," Kyle said to her quizzical stare. "I think it's a signal," he explained, as he attached two induction probes to the meter's base. His analyzer was plugged into a portable comm and after a few seconds translated words began to appear on its screen.
"—ural locations only. Further information will be sent daily at zero divs. Say again, this is Station Wye Wye Zed, transmitting to rural locations only. Further . . ."
She raced back to her room for her comm, sprinted back and queried it about Wye Wye Zed. She had to identify herself in intense detail to get the unit to admit it had heard of that designation. It was authenticated as real, but would not give more information than that. Black Operations, she mused. It had to be. Those cunning bastards. She smiled in admiration. Using the entertainment system control channels as binary data transmitters, while still sending the regular signals. That was just about undetectable.
"Plug mine in," she demanded and Kyle swapped leads. Immediately, her comm was able to pull out a second, encoded transmission. Everyone crowded around, heads in a gaggle, and stared intently at the screen.
Vikki shouted in triumph, as did Dak. Kyle shushed them and kept reading as they informed the others. Kendra grinned wider and wider. Those unbelievably resourceful bastards! They still had intel of some kind and were downloading the UN order of battle and movements. A table of frequencies, directions and an updated ephemeris for transmissions followed, with orders to bounce all signals off Syscom Sat 3. How her weak signal would reach that far, even through a dish antenna, or how they'd prevent the UN from retrieving those signals was beyond her. These people clearly had ways and every code checked out, including the hidden codes that were within existing documents. That and the details on UN forces that could be verified by at least some of the recipients. She wished for a means to double-check.
Was it too good to be true? She would be very cautious about logging in, but the risk was worth it to get intelligence for the fight. "Drive me out about twenty klicks and I'll report in tonight," she told Dak. "I'll need a dish antenna, too."
"We'll pull one of ours and keep it aside," he promised.
The response to her transmission was a load of troop positions and deployment schedules. However Intel or Black Ops or whoever was doing it, they clearly had good access to UN files. She decided the info was legit. If the enemy knew about her and wanted to show up and capture or kill her, they could have.
She sent a followup message the next night, transmitting back through the receiver following directions from the control station and hastily built by Kyle. She listed her force as "militia, small" without further details and was rewarded with a suggestion of targets and a promise of support weapons. She ceased wondering how it would be accomplished. These people redefined deviousness.
The targets were all forward units moving into the rural settlements to "liberate" them. She studied the list at length, ran calculations and picked one that was close by, small, and was suggested as having little combat experience. She wanted their first raid to be successful, and their second, and every raid after that. Then she chose an unorthodox target and method of attack.
"What?" was Dak's reply. "Why in the Goddess' name?"
"Trust me, Dak. I was in the UNPF, I know how they think. This will hurt them badly."
He shrugged and deferred. All they needed now was support weaponry. Kendra sent out a signal.
Said weaponry arrived the next day. A battered air truck flew in low and landed well clear of the house, letting its intentions be known. The body was ugly, but the engine sounded healthy. The pilot was a burly young farmer with full beard, dressed in timeless coveralls and natural-fabric shirt. "I'm Minstrel," he introduced himself. "We'll try to get you better stuff later, but this will have to do for now. Good hunting," he concluded, handing over the bundle, then was gone again. He never asked their names, and Kendra realized it was for security.