David Drake - Hammer's Slammers 06 - The Sharp End.pdf - David Drake - margozap

THE SHARP END

e-book ver. 1.0

Library of Congress Catalog Number: 93-10739

ISBN:0-671-87632-5

DEDICATION

To our architect and builder Derwood Schrotberger

Writing a novel and moving to a new house are both stressful occupations. The fact that I was able to combine them is a

comment on Derwood's consummate skill, which reminds me that architect originally meant Master Builder.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Those of you who notice echoes of The Glass Key and Red Harvest by Dashiell Hammett in this book are correct. Those

of you who don't should go off and read Hammett's splendid novels at your earliest convenience.

When I'm at a crux in my plotting, I tend to talk at those around me. When I did that this time on the way to the state fair

with friends, my wife, Jo, and Mark Van Name made suggestions which were precisely on point. I adopted both.

NIEUW FRIESLAND

The room housing the Officers Assignment Bureau was spacious enough to have three service cages and seats for

twenty around the walls of colored marble. Nobody was waiting when Major Matthew Coke entered, though a single

officer discussed alternative assignments with a specialist.

Coke stepped into an empty cage. A clerk rose from her desk in the administrative area across the divider and

switched on the electronics,

"Yes sir?" the clerk said pleasantly. "Is there a problem with your assignment?"

The Frisian Defense Forces reassigned scores of officers every week. Normally the operation was impersonal, a

data transfer to the officers present station directing him or her to report to a new posting, along with details of timing,

transport, and interim leave.

This office handled problems. President Hammer, in common with other leaders whose elevation owed more to

bullets than ballots, felt most comfortable with a large standing army under his direct control. Professional soldiers are

expensive, and unless they are used, they either rust, or find ways to employ themselves — generally to the detriment

of the established government.

Hammers answer to the problem was to hire out elements of the Frisian Defense Forces as mercenaries. This

provided training for the troops, as well as defraying the cost of their pay and equipment.

Sometimes the troops engaged were merely a few advisers or specialists. When somebody, a planetary government

or the rebels opposed to it, hired a large force, however, the OAB would be standing room only.

Officers on Nieuw Friesland knew that the only sure route to promotion was through combat experience. The

Frisian Defense Forces had sprung from Hammer's Slammers, a mercenary regiment with the reputation for doing

whatever it took to win . . . and a reputation for winning.

So long as Alois Hammer was President and the commanders of the Frisian Defense Forces were the officers who'd

bought him that position in decades of bloody war, bureaucratic 'warriors' weren't on the fast track to high rank. You

paid for your rank sometimes in blood, and sometimes with your life; but all that was as nothing without demonstrated

success at the sharp end, where they buried the guys in second place.

Not everybody was comfortable with Hammers terms of employment, but the Forces were volunteer only and the

volunteers came from all across the human universe; just as they had to Hammer's Slammers before. A certain number

of men, and a lower percentage of women, would rather fight than not. Alois Hammers troops had always been the

best there was at what they did: killing the other fellow, whoever he was.

A draft going out to a hot theater was a ticket to promotion. Officers would crowd the Assignment Bureau, begging

and threatening, offering bribes and trying to pull rank to get a slot. Mostly it didn't work.

The Table of Organization for a combat deployment was developed by the central data base itself. Changes had to

be approved by President Hammer, who was immune to any practical form of persuasion. The Assignments Bureaus

were open because people prefer to argue with human beings instead of electronic displays, but that was normally a

cosmetic rather than significant touch.

You could also appeal to Hammer personally. In that case, you were cashiered if you didn't convince him. Old-

timers in the Assignment Bureau said that the success rate was slightly under three percent, but every month or so

somebody else tried it.

There were no large-scale deployments under way at the moment, but there were always glitches, clerical or

personal, which had to be ironed out. The clerk smiled at Coke, expecting to leam that he'd been assigned to a slot

calling for a sergeant-major, or that he was wanted for murder on the planet to which he was being posted.

Coke's problem was rather different.

"I'm here to receive sealed orders," Coke said, offering the clerk his identification card with the embedded chip. He

smiled wryly.

The clerk blinked in surprise. There were various reasons why an officer's orders would be sealed within the data

base, requiring him or her to apply in person to the bureau to receive them. Coke didn't look like the sort to whom any

of the special reasons would apply. He looked — normal.

Matthew Coke was 34 standard years old — 29 dated on Ash, where he was born, 51 according to the shorter year

of Nieuw Friesland. He had brown hair, eyes that were green, blue, or gray depending on how much sunlight had been

bleaching them, and stood a meter seventy-eight in his stocking feet. He was thin but not frail, like a blade of good

steel.

Coke was in dress khakis with rank tabs and the blue edging to the epaulets that indicated his specialty was infantry.

He wore no medal or campaign ribbons whatever, but over his left breast pocket was a tiny lion rampant on a field of

red enamel.

The lion marked the men who'd served with Hammers Slammers before the regiment was subsumed into the Frisian

Defense Forces. Its lonely splendor against the khaki meant that, like most of the other Slammers veterans, Coke

figured that when you'd said you were in the Slammers, you'd said everything that mattered.

Considering that, the clerk realized that Major Coke might not be quite as normal as he looked.

"Face the lens, please, sir," the clerk said as she inserted the ID card into a slot on her side of the cage. Electronics

chittered, validating the card and comparing Coke's retinal patterns with those contained in the embedded chip.

A soft chime indicated approval. Coke eased from the stiff posture with which he had faced the comparator lens. He

continued to smile faintly, but the emotions the clerk read on his face were sadness and resignation,

"Just a moment," the clerk said. "The printer has to warm up, but —"

As she spoke, a sheet of hardcopy purred from the dispenser on Coke's side of the cage. Coke read the rigid film upside

down as it appeared instead of waiting for the print cycle to finish so that he could clip the document.

His face blanked; then he began to laugh. The captain at the next cage glanced at him, then away. The clerk waited,

hoping Coke would explain the situation but unwilling to press him.

Coke tapped the cutter, then tossed the sheet across the counter to the clerk. "It says my new assignment is Category Ten

Forty-seven," he said as the clerk scanned the document. "That's survey team, isn't it?"

The clerk nodded. "Yessir," she said. "You'll be assessing potential customers for field force deployments."

She didn't understand Major Coke's laughter. "Isn't this what you were expecting, sir?" she asked as she slid back the

hardcopy.

"What I was expecting . . ." Coke explained, ". . . after the way I screwed up my last assignment on Auerstadt . . ." He

was smiling like a skull, as broadly and with as little humor.

"... was that they'd fire my ass. But I guess the Assessment Board decided I couldn't get into much trouble on a

survey team."

He began to laugh again. Despite the obvious relief in Coke's voice, the sound of his laughter chilled the clerk.

Earlier: AUERSTROT

There was a party going on in the extensive quarters of General the Marquis Bradkopf, National Army commander of

Fortress Auerstadt. Next door in the Tactical Operations Center, Major Matthew Coke of the Frisian Defense Forces was

trying to do his job — and General Bradkopf's job — through a realtime link to the pair of combat cars in ambush position

thirty kilometers away.

The combat cars were named Mother Love and The Facts of Life. They and their crews were Frisians; and the sergeants

commanding them were, like Coke, former members of Hammer's Slammers, the mercenary regiment whose ruthless skill

had transformed Colonel Hammer into Alois Hammer, President of Nieuw Friesland.

"We're getting major movement into Hamlet Three, sir," said 4-4 — Sergeant-Commander Dubose in Mother Love,

stationed for the moment on a dike south of the three hamlets called Parcotch for administrative purposes. "Nearly a

hundred just from the direction of Auerstadt. Most of them are carrying weapons, too"

The three clerks in the TOC with Coke were National Army enlisted personnel, two women and a male who looked

fifteen years old. They were chattering in a corner of the open bullpen. One of the women had brought in a series of

holovision cubes of Deiting, the planetary capital, where she'd gone on leave with her boyfriend, a transport driver.

There was a National Army officer listed as Commander of the Watch, but whoever it was hadn't put in an

appearance this evening. In all likelihood, the fellow was at General Bradkopf's party.

That was fine with Coke. The best a National officer could do was to keep out of the way of the advisor hired from

the Frisian Defense Forces.

Though all the raw data was provided by the combat cars, processing by the base unit in the TOC added several

layers of enhancement to what the troops on the ground could see. Coke checked the statistical analysis in a sidebar of

his holographic display and said, "There's a hundred and seventeen up the Auerstadt Road. They're all armed, and

ninety percent of them are in spatter-camouflage uniforms."

"Bloody hell," said Sergeant-Commander Lennox from The Facts of Life. "We've got regulars from the Association

of Barons? Then it's really going to blow!"

"And Four-Two has spotted another eighty-four coming down from Hamlet One and points north," Coke continued,

watching his split-screen display. "The only thing I can imagine from an assembly this large is that they're planning to

attack the fortress itself in a night or two."

Two companies, even of fully equipped regulars, weren't a threat to a base the size of Fortress Auerstadt; but

Parcotch was only one village of the ninety or a hundred within comparable distance of the base.

The direct views from sensors in the combat cars filled the lower right and left quadrants of Coke's display. The top

half of the screen looked down at an apparent 30° on a panorama extrapolated from the separate inputs and combined

with map data.

Mother Love was a klick to the south and east of Hamlet 3. The Facts of Life was within 500 meters of the hamlets

west edge, and that was the problem. Lennox's vehicle was only 500 meters east of Hamlet 2 as well, where the

incoming troops had parked a launching trailer full of short-range guided weapons.

The combat cars were in perfect position to do a number on the enemy concentration in Hamlet 3, but Coke wasn't

willing to put Lennox between two fires.

"Any chance the Nationals might send us some support?" Sergeant Dubose said wistfully.

"Any chance the tooth fairy is making a run by your car tonight?" Sergeant Lennox retorted tartly. She was a lanky

woman who shaved her head and was just as tough as she looked. "Sir," she continued, "let's do it. If we rip this one,

the locals'll get their heads out of the sand."

"Not in your present location, Four-Two," Coke said. "If they salvo the full load of missiles, there's no way you're

going to survive. Particularly with what-ever's happening in Three."

"Sir, look," Lennox said. "The personnel are going to be in Three with the others, getting a pep talk or whatever the

hell they're doing. The launchers no threat!"

"We don't —" Coke started to say.

A mortar fired just outside the TOC.

"Hold one!" Coke shouted, spinning from the console and grabbing the sub-machine gun he'd slung over the back of

his chair. The National Army clerks jumped up also. They'd been frightened by Coke's reaction rather than the

mortar's flash and hollow CHUG! through the TOC's doorway. The vacationer's glittering holoviews spilled onto the

floor.

Cheers and laughter from outside the TOC told Coke there was no danger. The shell popped thousands of meters in

the air, casting harsh magnesium light across Fortress Auerstadt. General the Marquis Bradkopf was using parachute

flares to provide fireworks for his party.

Which suggested a way out of Cokes immediate problem.

In theory, Coke's console was linked to the National Army net. Rather than go through the complicated handshake

procedures, however, Coke turned to the rack system at the adjacent bay.

He switched the unit from standby to operations and waited a moment for it to warm up. When the light went from

amber to green, Coke keyed the address of the heavy battery of the artillery battalion attached to the fortress defenses.

The clerk responsible for the communications bay watched Coke in concern from across the room, but she didn't

attempt to interfere.

Marquis Bradkopf began hectoring a subordinate outside the door of the TOC. Drink and anger slurred his words so

that Coke couldn't make them out, A woman's voice wove a descant around Bradkopf's.

"Battery Seven," a man said. "Yeah?"

"This is Fortress Command," Coke said crisply. "I have an immediate fire mission for you." As he spoke, his left

hand addressed a target information packet on the Frisian console. "This will require seeker shells, so I'm authorizing

you to release them from locked storage."

"What!" said the soldier on the other end of the line. "What? Look, I'll get Chief Edson."

Theoretically, the Frisians were in advisory capacity without direct control of National Army forces. As with other

large organizations, somebody who was willing to claim authority was more than likely to be granted it.

The mortar fired again, lofting a second flare into the night sky. There was static on the land line, masking a half-

audible conversation at the battery end.

National Army heavy equipment was generally of off-planet manufacture, ranging from good to very good in

design. The local personnel were of low quality, however, and virtually untrained. Coke didn't dare call an ordinary

fire mission to support units within half a klick of the intended.impact area. Battery 7's 200-mm guns were capable of

nail-driving accuracy at thirty kilometers, but the crews were as apt as not to drop their heavy shells directly on The

Facts of Life.

Technology could eliminate the problem. The battery was issued four Frisian-manufactured seeker rounds, one per

tube. These self-steering warheads were designed for use against ill-defined or moving targets, and combined with

satellite photos of Parcotch Hamlet 2 they would obviate the friendly-fire risk.

"Chief Edson," a businesslike voice said. "Who is this?"

"Major Matthew Coke," Coke said, "acting Fortress Command. Where's your battery commander?"

"Who the fuck knows?" said the chief, the battery's ranking enlisted man. "Look, Major, I don't care about your

authorization — I flat don't have the codes to open the special locker. Maybe Captain Wilcken does, maybe the

Marquis does — maybe nobody. Forget the seeker warheads, they're just for show."

"Prepare the battery," Coke snapped. "I'm on my way."

He dropped the handset onto its cradle and rose. More figures drifted through the shadows of the split screen.

Lennox and Dubose held their silence, as Coke had directed them at last transmission.

Coke settled his commo helmet, slung the sub-machine gun over his shoulder, and started for the door. General

Bradkopf and his entourage burst through from outside.

"Coke!" the Marquis roared. "Where's — there you are!" He pointed an index finger at Coke's face. "What's

happened to my tanksP'

Bradkopf was in his mid-fifties. His body was fleshy but powerful, since swimming and exercise machines

controlled the grosser results of the dissipation nonetheless evident on his face.

"Sir, you and I discussed using the combat cars for an ambush patrol," Coke half-lied. His mouth was dry, and his

palm was sweating on the grip of his sub-machine gun. This could get him reprimanded. If Bradkopf was angry

enough, he could even have Coke recalled to Friesland.

The group oozing into the TOC behind the Marquis included most of the higher male officers of Fortress

Auerstadt's complement. Among them was Captain Wilcken, a 20-year-old of excellent family and the titular

commander of Battery 7.

Each of the men had a woman in train. The redhead on the Marquis' arm was approximately a third of his age.

"You said you wanted to send out one of the tanks with a patrol," Bradkopf said, his memory unfortunately quite

accurate. "For communications."

For stiffening, actually, but the lie was a harmless one. When he'd gotten down to serious planning, he realized that

he didn't dare saddle Frisians — his troops — with any of the National Army units in the fortress. The locals lacked

noise discipline, fire discipline, and target identification skills. A Frisian combat car was the largest thing around and

therefore the most likely target for the National troops who did manage to shoot.

Furthermore, the locals lacked guts.

" I said I'd think about it," Bradkopf said, "and now I find you've stripped me of all my protection! Are you a

traitor?"

"No sir," Coke said, "I'm not a traitor. I —"

I screwed up badly, but Bradkopf wasn't the man to admit that to. Coke had taken the chance that the Marquis

wouldn't notice the two combat cars — not tanks — normally parked near his quarters were missing. If Bradkopf

hadn't decided to shoot off flares for his party, Coke would have gotten away with it.

If.

Coke couldn't quarrel with Bradkopfs assumption that the commander of an 8,000-troop base was unprotected if

two foreign combat vehicles left his presence. It was just that protecting this commander was in no sense a military

priority for Coke.

"Six, this is Four-Four," Sergeant Dubose reported tensely through Coke's commo helmet. "The troops are moving

out of Three in civilian trucks and wagons. Over."

"General Bradkopf!" Coke said. "Association forces are maneuvering to attack this base tonight."

Not in a few days: in a few hours.

Fear of a bad rating in his personnel file had turned Coke's skin hot and prickly. The prospect of imminent combat

washed him cool again. Major Matthew Coke was a professional and an employee; but first of all he was a soldier.

"What?" blurted the Marquis, sounding amazingly like the gunner on phone watch at Battery 7. "An attack where?

Have you gone mad?"

" Six, this is Four-Two" Sergeant Lennox reported. There was a lilt, almost a caress in her voice despite the

flattening of spread-band radio communication. "The rocket pod's moved out of Two. It's being pulled by a tractor,

now, I'd say it was time, boss. Over"

The partygoers gaped without understanding at the multidirectional byplay. Most of them were drunk or nearly

drunk. Captain Wilcken was white-faced but sober. The glance he exchanged with Colonel Jaffe, equally well-born

and head of the garrison's supply department, held more terror than confusion.

Coke keyed his helmet. "Six to Four elements" he said. "Take th—"

He didn't get the last word, 'them,' out of his mouth before the split display behind him ignited with gunfire and

explosions,

"I'm sounding the general alarm," Coke said calmly as he turned his back on the Marquis. He uncaged and pressed

one of the special-use switches at the side of his consoles keyboard. The artificial intelligence sent an alert signal to

every node on Fortress Auerstadts communications network. The siren on the roof of the TOC began to wind.

The holographic display shimmered with the cyan hell engulfing Parcotch.

A Frisian combat car mounted three tribarrels in its open fighting compartment. Each weapon fired 2-cm powergun

ammunition at a cyclic rate of about 500 rounds per minute. Because the barrels rotated through the firing position

and had time to cool between shots, a tribarrel could fire sustainedly for several minutes before burning out. In that

time, the powerful bolts of ionized copper atoms could peck halfway through the side of a mountain.

Nothing Mother Love and The Facts of Life faced at Parcotch had armor protection. The targets, unprepared

Association soldiers and the civilian helpers driving the vehicles, wilted like wax in a blowtorch.

The Facts of Life's two wing guns hit the trailer of anti-tank rockets and the tractor towing it. That was overkill — a

single tribarrel should have been sufficient — but the rocket pod was the only real danger to the Frisian vehicles, and

Lennox hadn't survived to become a veteran by taking needless risks.

Cyan bolts licked the pod. The solid rocket fuel burned in a huge yellow ball, technically not an explosion but

David Drake - Hammer's Slammers 06 - The Sharp End.pdf

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