The men were set, but hidden by the jungle's foliage. At a signal from Cruz-he was acting as leader for this mission-the medium machine gun began to sweep fire across the top of the objective. Near the machine gun, but spread out to either side, were three men carrying "Draco" sniper rifles, which fired the same, high-powered, round. Between the two types of fire Cruz could reasonably expect the target to be judged "suppressed."
When he, personally, judged that anyone who might have been in the target trench would at this point likely have been on the bottom of it, shitting their pants, Cruz gave the signal-a simple whistle blast, for the machine gun to lift fires off the objective. It did, but only to the extent of firing high so that the sound of the bullets passing would at least continue to frighten anyone who might have been in the trench. The Dracos maintained their slow, aimed, deliberate fire. The assault party would just have to move through it, trusting to the marksmanship of the Draco men.
Most armies would have banned this as being far too unsafe.
Cruz then led the remaining men forward at the double, bayonets fixed, to a shallow linear depression in the earth. The men hastily threw themselves down into it. The machine gun resumed firing only a few feet over their heads.
Under his leaders' watchful eyes, Cruz and the rest threw simulators at the opposing trench. At this signal the machine gun lifted its fire off of the objective completely and began to pound a suspicious- looking position higher up the hill. Making ready to use simulators again, the men crawled forward to within a few feet of the trench. Two of them placed simulators directly into it. That was much less nerve wracking than using real grenades. After the twin explosions the rest rushed the last few feet up to the trench, firing downward from the hip as they ran.
The first two men jumped in, turned to the sides and fired at targets that suddenly appeared on either side of them. Meanwhile, Cruz and the rest crawled forward and entered the position themselves. Cruz ordered the rightmost man to stay put and guard the rear. Then the rest turned left and began bombing their way forward, throwing simulators to clear each section of trench before entering it to make a clean sweep with automatic rifle fire.
Fifty meters up the line the trench branched. Again leaving a man to guard that portion that ran parallel to the crest of the hill, Cruz and the others took the branch that went uphill. Bombing forward the entire way, Cruz reached the final objective, a small command bunker. He threw a green smoke canister to signal for the machine gun to come forward and sent one man to retrieve the two who had been left behind. Then he began placing the section in a hasty defense to repel any counterattack.
Behind Cruz, del Valle and First Centurion Martinez exchanged glances. Oooo, that was nice. Good kid; very calm, very determined. He's done well. There's potential here.
Lying on his belly, waiting for someone to start pulling up the targets that would signal the enemy counterattack, Cruz thought, damn, that was fun. He didn't notice that his hands had started bleeding again.
Fort Cameron, 24/5/460 AC
The window-mounted air conditioner hummed loudly, causing the speaker to have to raise his voice to be heard. It didn't really matter; Carrera listened with only one ear, and absently, to the training status brief being presented. He relied more on his eyes and ears than statistical indicia, anyway.
The briefing officer, Tribune Rocaberti, was River Watch trained, Carrera knew. The briefing reflected that. It was also precisely why Carrera paid it little attention. The briefing was thorough, painstaking, and, inevitably, duller than watching paint dry.
Carrera had always found long meetings to be physically and psychically agonizing. He interrupted Rocaberti and told Johnson to stay and listen to the rest. Then he left the conference tent
"Take me to Imperial Range, Jamey," he told Soult.
"Sure thing, Boss."
Soult put the car in gear and pulled away on the packed gravel road for the hour and a half long drive to Imperial Range. Soult drove quietly for the first half hour, before reaching the paved highway that ran west to the Bridge of the Columbias and on to Imperial Range complex. He did risk a couple of glances over at his chief, noting that Carrera's face seemed troubled.
"What's bothering you, Boss?"
Of the people Carrera had assembled for his staff, only threeSoult, Mitchell and the sergeant major-were actually the kind of friends he would trust with a personal problem. He thought about whether this was the kind that he could… or even should.
"I am beginning to feel like a disloyal rat, Jamey."
"Lourdes, right, Boss?"
"Yeah," Carrera admitted. Who said enlisted men were stupid? "I find myself thinking about her at odd times."
"Uhhh… Boss… we all find you looking at her at odd times, too."
"Everybody's noticed?" Pat asked.
"I think so. I mean… well, I'm sure you try not to look and all… but, yeah; sometimes you're pretty obvious."
Carrera sighed and turned his face to the right, watching the trees go by. After several minutes he turned back.
"The problem is, Jamey, that my wife and kids are dead less than a year. It just seems wrong for me to be looking at another woman now. It might be wrong ever to look at another woman with… any… oh… significance."
"If you don't mind my saying so, Boss, that's bullshit. A man needs a woman. A soldier needs one more than most."
"Maybe," Carrera half conceded before turning his gaze back to the passing jungle.
The staff car pulled to a stop near the large asphalt parking lot where Sitnikov had once given his introductory presentation on tanks. There was an infantry cohort-the schedule said it would be the 1st Cohort-sitting on the mown grass east of the asphalt, eating lunch from pouches.
"Hey, Cruz, look. It's the Gringo."
By now, everybody knew who the Gringo was. It was also known that he was a former Federated States military officer. It was rumored that he had lost his family during either the terrorist attacks on the Terra Nova Trade Organization in the FSC or during the attacks shortly thereafter in the Republic of Balboa. No one, no one at Cruz's level, at least, knew for sure which it was, though.
Cruz looked up to see Carrera watching another century as they practiced mounting and dismounting from the Ocelots. Each cohort had four, for general support, in the Combat Support Century. Any couple of sections might need to mount them in the coming fight so all had to be at least familiarized beforehand.
Cruz asked a question of common concern. "Why do you suppose he's here with us?"
Not quite understanding, his squad mate answered, "To make sure we're training all the time, not eating properly, and getting little rest. Why else?"
"Don't be more stupid than you absolutely must," Cruz said. "No, I mean what is he doing here in Balboa? It doesn't make sense to me."
"I heard a rumor that he is planning to overthrow the government and establish himself as dictator. I also heard, from an equally reliable source, that he is an agent of the Gringo imperialists to make sure we never rise again."
"Oh, antania shit. He spends way too much time training us to think he's against us. Nothing he's done suggests anything but that he's on our side. He spends all his time out in the field with us, trying to make sure we're ready to fight. That means he is not trying to keep Balboa down. I heard he refused the command of the legion, so it doesn't look like he wants to be dictator. No. He is here for some other reason. If he really did lose his family, like rumor control says, could it really be that he's here just for revenge?"
Sergeant del Valle, who was at a level to know why Carrera was there, interrupted the conversation to say, "Why he's here is none of your goddamned business, Privates. And since you two seem to have all this idle time on your hands to philosophize, you can wash out the Ocelot tonight after we're finished."