“I thought boot camp was supposed to last six weeks at least,” Charlie said.
“For American citizens,” Jake said. “Not for dirty dogs like you and me.”
Lee tapped Jake on the shoulder and pointed west.
Jake cocked his head. From beyond the boulder, he heard squealing treads. The things sounded as if they moved fast, and they were coming out of the shadowy woods.
Then an enemy UAV roared low overhead with crooked wings like an old time Stuka. The thing was like a tin can, an armored ground-attack UAV. The troops had taken to calling it a Razorback. The Razorback’s machine guns opened up. Dirt fountained up like it did in the movies. A group of militiamen standing around like dorks died, falling like bowling pins. Others hit the ground, crawling away.
With his back against the boulder, Jake looked up at the thing. It turned in a tight curve. The Razorback launched a missile, and the air-to-ground rocket zoomed fast, hit and exploded against a TOW tube. The team manning the TOW blew apart into bloody bits, smacking against the wet earth.
Beside him, Charlie groaned in terror.
The Razorback began firing its machine guns again. Meanwhile, the enemy light tanks or Sigrids seemed to sprint for them.
“Damnit,” Jake said. “We need some Blowdarts.” He raised his M16, tucking the butt against his shoulder. It was a pitiful weapon to use against a ground-attack UAV.
Jake led the Razorback as if he was duck hunting, and he depressed the trigger, firing three-round bursts. Lee lifted his grenade launcher, and launched a grenade.
“Down!” Jake shouted.
The grenade sailed up and exploded, and it rained shrapnel on fellow militiamen.
Jake heard Sergeant Franks bellow something. Maybe the man thought they’d turned their weapons on their tormentors: the MDGs. That was one thing about being a penal militiaman: you were only supposed to fire your weapons in the direction of the enemy, never behind you.
Oblivious to everything, Lee raised his grenade launcher again. Jake jumped up and pulled the barrel down.
“No,” he told Lee. “Fire at the Sigrids. Don’t fire at the Razorback flying over us.”
Lee stared at him, and he nodded.
The Razorback turned tightly again. The thing was going to singlehandedly destroy the company. Jake glanced at the detention sergeants. He saw them slithering away, maybe even retreating. Did they figure the company was as good as dead?
Bastards, they’re all bastards. I can’t believe this war.
“Charlie!” Jake shouted. “You’d better get up and aim at the plane. Fire when I fire.”
Charlie scrambled to his feet, and he tucked the butt of his M16 just as Jake did his.
“It’s coming straight at us!” Charlie shouted.
“Yeah,” Jake said. “I see it.” He figured this was as good a way to die as any other. He aimed, and he fired off an entire magazine. Beside him, Charlie did the same thing.
A spark erupted on the Razorback, and it quit firing just as its machine gun bullets fountained near them. Had it run out of ammo? That was the likely explanation.
“I hit it!” Charlie shouted.
Before Jake could confirm that, the Razorback passed overhead, roaring toward the woods. This time it didn’t turn around, nor did they hear it crash. Instead, it slowly droned away.
“Tanks!” a militiaman screamed.
“They’re almost on top of us!” Charlie shouted. “Listen.”
Jake didn’t need anyone to tell him to listen. He heard them. He scanned back, but didn’t see any sign of the MDGs. That meant they were on their own. What was the best thing to do with these untrained civilians? There was no way what was left of the company were going to destroy tanks, not destroy them and survive.
“Go!” Jake shouted at Charlie and Lee. “Follow me!” He sprinted for a stand of bushes to his left. He kept hold of his M16, and the air burned down his lungs at he lifted his boots. He dove, thudded onto wet ground and put his head down as he wriggled into a thick stand of bushes. A moment later, Charlie wriggled through with him and then in came Lee.
They lay on the ground, peering through the bushes, and they witnessed seven Sigrids murder the rest of the penal company. Each tracked vehicles boasted a tri-barreled machine gun, a Gatling gun that blazed fire. Militiamen ran everywhere. Militiamen crawled and sobbed. The science fiction war-robots clanked fast and blew men apart one by one.
When it was over, the squat vehicles spun on their treads, searching for more. Jake dreaded the robots’ ability to sense behind the bushes. Did the things have heat sensors? He didn’t know. His mouth tasted like defeat. Jake knew bitter hatred then. He’d fight the enemy the right way if the Militia gave him weapons that could destroy machines like that, and give them training. But to send them to the front in a penal unit without support or leadership… A red haze of anger seethed through Jake. This was BS. This was murder pure and simple.
Finally, the Sigrids headed back the way they had come, leaving the dead company for the crows and wild dogs.
The three surviving militiamen in the bushes waited until they could no longer hear the squealing treads.
“Now what do we do?” Charlie asked.
Jake had been thinking about that. The MDGs would be back soon, or it seemed possible they would be. The three of them would have to write up a report and needed pertinent facts.
“We have to fire our TOW,” Jake said.
“Why?” Charlie asked. “There isn’t anyone to fire at now.”
“The why is because the sergeants will look for ways to blame us,” Jake said. “We can’t give them anything. Then we have to get our stories straight. We fired and hit a GD robot, but it didn’t hurt the thing enough to destroy it. We also have to shoot all our bullets and toss all our grenades. We used up everything before we hid. We have to get our stories straight.”
“Isn’t that lying?” Charlie asked.
“I don’t like to lie,” Jake said. “But our sergeants ran out on us. If they’d stayed and fought, they would deserve the truth. As it is, they deserve a knuckle full of fist at best.”
“Yeah,” Charlie said. “I see what you’re saying.”
“Let’s go,” Jake said. “We may not have much time left to get everything ready.”
The three militiamen crawled out of the bushes, and they fired their M16s as they hurried to the TOW to get it launched, too.
Walther Mansfeld swiveled around on his chair in his command car. He struck his knee a glancing blow and was surprised it didn’t hurt. He flipped on a screen and saw the worried image of General Holk regarding him. Behind Holk aides scurried back and forth.
“I hope this is urgent,” Mansfeld said.
“Sir… I’m afraid—”
“Is this about Hamilton?”
Holk bobbed his head. “It is, sir.”
“The Americans made an ill-coordinated attack,” Mansfeld said. “You annihilated the forward elements. That is the correct report, is it not?”
“Annihilated is too strong a word, sir,” Holk said. “We stopped them, but the enemy has dug in and many more are coming from Buffalo. This is a new army, sir.”
“From their behavior, I would say they are castoff elements hastily thrown together,” Mansfeld said.
“My spotters have counted at least one hundred thousand new soldiers. There could be twice as many marching into position.”
“They are marching more troops into captivity,” Mansfeld said.
“At the moment, they are putting pressure on Hamilton, sir. I suspect they will creep toward the city. If nothing else, those troops are screening heavy artillery farther back. The US tubes will have enough reach to disrupt the Golden Horseshoe autobahns I need to use for my London-directed offensive.”