Stark's War (32 page)

But this time would be different. First and Third Platoons evaded forward on either side, then dropped and opened a murderous aimed fire on any enemy position still shooting. Second Platoon kept going, dropping Sanchez's Second Squad as it went, the other two Squads washing over the survivors of the Third Division Bravo Company, engulfing them, picking them up, and then receding like a wave hitting a sand castle and pulling its remnants out to sea.

Stark grabbed at a prone figure as Vic's Squad fired steadily around him. "Let's go, soldier." The figure lolled limply, and Stark realized one arm was completely gone. "Hell. Pass this one back," he ordered Chen, shoving the body his way.

Chen took the body automatically. "We recovering the dead, too, Sarge?"

"Yes. Damn it, Bravo Company isn't leaving any dead from Third Division's Bravo Company out here. We bring them all in, hear me? Alive and dead."

A cheer sounded, startling Stark, who half scowled/half smiled before seizing another battle-armored body. "You okay?"

"Who the hell are you?" The Third Division soldier quivered uncontrollably, nerves shattered by the torrent of violence rearranging the lunar landscape on all sides.

"Angels of mercy. Get the hell back. My people will help you." Stark shoved the man toward another member of his Squad, then moved to the next, swift and sure, finding far too many dead and far too few living. "You alive?" he demanded, hauling up another prone soldier. The soldier swung silently in his hands, trying to line up her rifle toward the enemy again, fingers tightening in endless reflex on the trigger of the empty weapon. Stark yanked the rifle free, sending it spinning off in a graceful arc, then slapped an armored hand against the shell-shocked woman's helmet. "Your fight's over for now. Get back." Another shove to the rear and she went obediently, almost falling into the arms of Billings.

"Ethan! It's starting to get pretty hot here again."

"Yeah, Vic." Absorbed in the evacuation, Stark had failed to note the rising intensity of the enemy fire, artillery and heavy weapons beginning to strike among them again as the enemy started to grasp what might be happening. Stark paused to check the picture on his HUD, scanning to determine how much was left to do. "We're getting the last ones now."

"I'll peel off half my Squad to help. Ethan, it is time to leave!"

"Okay, okay. Third Squad, let's go. Stop passing the Third Division apes to Second Squad. Just grab everyone left and head back to our positions." Stark reached out both hands, each locking onto a battered set of battle armor, both of which surely held no life within them, then gathered the two bodies to him, blessing lunar gravity, and headed for the American lines in a barely controlled rush.

They made it, to the bunker line where the defensive perimeter could offer some shelter, passing the shattered soldiers from Third Division back to waiting medical units. A few survivors, still too stunned to realize what had happened, to realize how many of the faces they'd seen this morning would never come back, never be seen again, not until Judgment Day dawned on the World below. Assuming, Stark thought bitterly, that that day hadn't already come and gone, with this portion of humanity damned to a special hell up here.

"Looks like the virus has spread," Reynolds remarked with feigned idle curiosity.

"What do you mean?" Stark checked his command scan, startled to see First Division units lunging forward around the perimeter to collect isolated pockets of trapped Third Division troops. "Headquarters finally came to their senses?"

Before Vic could reply, a strange voice called in. "Hey, Stark, what's next?"

Stark checked the ID tag on the transmission, seeing it came from a Sergeant he barely knew in another battalion on the other side of the perimeter. "Wha—?"

"Yeah, we need some follow-on orders here, Stark."

"Stark, what do we do with our fragged officers?"

"What if they counterattack, Stark? We gonna hit back?"

"Stark, we need more medical support over here. There's a lot of wounded from Third Division."

"Hold it!" Stark roared. "What the hell's going on?"

"They're asking for orders, Ethan," Vic advised. "Why the hell are they asking me?"

"Because you took charge. Better answer them."

"I didn't . . ."
Yes, you did.
Stark glared at the command scan for a moment. "Okay. How many units have fragged their officers?" A babble of responses clamored back. "Hold it! Let's try that different. Which units are still under control of their officers?"

A long silence stretched. "Stark?" someone finally called. He recognized this voice, the female Sergeant from headquarters who'd spoken with him after the Fernandez interview. "Every officer here is off-line and disarmed. We had to act when they realized what was happening, tried to order our units to attack each other, and started to call in the Navy to bombard our own positions."

"That's insane. Even if they'd succeeded, all they'd have accomplished is stripping the colony of its defenses."

"Maybe. I'm not claiming they were thinking straight, but they tried. Right now they're mad as hell, but we've got them locked down. I'm not seeing any officer call-ins, either. I think you've got it all."
I've got it all.

"Ethan," Vic urged, "tell people what to do."

"Okay."
What do I tell them? I don't want everyone calling me asking for orders. But if I don't give some orders, who will? No officers left, thanks to something I started. Yeah, I started it. So it's my responsibility, at least for now.
"Units still recovering Third Division personnel send support requests to neighboring units and Sergeant Grace at Divisional Artillery. Everybody else fall back into our defensive positions. Units without bunker assignments return to barracks and hold in reserve."

"What about the officers?"

"Make sure they're disarmed and put them under arrest. We'll load as many as possible in the stockade and improvise for the rest." A sudden alarming thought arose. "Is there anybody at the spaceport?"

"Yeah, Stark. Right here."

"The ground-based anti-orbital defenses. Who's got those?"

"We do. I sent my people in to make sure we owned them. The AO troops weren't too sure whose side they wanted to be on, so we removed the option for them."

"Thanks. Good job."

"Headquarters here," the female Sergeant chimed in again. "What do you want us to do with the vid feed?"

"It's still going out?"

"Yeah, on the link back to Earth. I don't know if anybody back there has figured out what's going on yet."

I'm not even sure what's going on.
"Can you keep the vid going without letting anyone know the officers are offline?"

"I think so. We'll just send them a stream of vid from units recovering Third Division casualties."

"Good. That'll buy us some time. Do it."

"Stark," another Sergeant demanded, "what if the enemy counterattacks? What do we do?"

"We let them," Stark declared. "We let them try all they want, and we blow them to hell when they get within range."

"Sounds like a plan. We'll hold in reserve then, like you said, until we get new orders from you."

New orders from me?
"Vic, what's happened here?"

"Congratulations, Ethan," Vic stated dryly. "You've got an army."

"I don't want a damn army."

"Well, you've got one. Better figure out what you're going to do with it."

Headquarters, again. The same overwide corridors, the same careful attention to every detail of construction, but feeling abandoned without those corridors filled with senior officers looking and acting important. A few enlisted soldiers stood around, some apparently on sentry duty and some obviously unemployed. One group of the unemployed grinned in a goofy fashion at Stark and received a hard enough glare in return to stiffen every one of them back into military posture.

The headquarters Sergeant greeted Stark outside a plain but reinforced door. "Welcome back."

"Thanks. What the hell is your name, anyway?"

"Tanaka," she said with a grin. "Jill Tanaka. The General's inside," she added with a gesture toward the door. "This is the holding cell for people Fernandez fingered. I figured it'd be an apt place to lock up Meecham."

"Guess so." Stark grunted. "Jill, I don't want to tell you your job, but things feel pretty loose around here."

Tanaka's grin faded. "I know. The junior enlisted are a little giddy. Especially here. There were so many senior officers playing master of the universe around headquarters that the enlisted really built up a head of frustration. Now they figure they're in charge."

"They're not. We are."

"Hmmm." Tanaka thought a moment, then nodded. "Right. They were supposed to do what I said before, and they'll damn well do the same now, right?"

"Right. Now I guess I ought to see General Meathead."

Tanaka waved a security pass to open the lock, and Stark pushed through. In notable contrast to the rest of the headquarters complex, the holding cell hadn't been designed with comfort in mind. General Meecham, his heavily beribboned uniform noticeably wrinkled, stared grimly toward Stark from the bare metal chair that served as the sole furnishing of the tiny room.
Guess Tanaka had some frustrations built up, too, since she stuck Meecham in here instead of in the stockade. At least they've got bunks in the cells there.
"You wanted to see me, General?" Stark stated flatly.

"I wanted to see the traitor who has irrevocably stained the honor of the U.S. military, yes," Meecham declared.

"Fine. You've seen me. Anything else, General?"

"I should have had you shot a long time ago."

"General, you are one stupid son of a bitch, you know that?" Stark found himself smiling. "I guess I've wanted to say something like that for a long time. Anyway, you're stupid. Real stupid. You wasted the lives of thousands of good soldiers, and now you're dumb enough to threaten somebody who could have
you
shot. You got any other smart things to say?"

"Wait." Meecham made an all-too-obvious struggle to compose himself, then smiled in firm and apparently friendly fashion. "Sergeant, everyone makes mistakes. In the heat of action, with a temporary setback distorting judgment, even the best soldier can act perhaps too hastily, in a way they'd regret." Stark stared back, silent. "We can still put a lid on all this. Nobody wants a mutiny to go forward, right? Officially, nothing has happened, yet. Officially, nothing has to happen."

"Meaning what?"

Meecham leaned forward, eyes intense. "Meaning we can still pull back from this. Release me and the other officers, Stark. Let us reestablish discipline. There won't be any adverse consequences if this all gets called off, now."

"Why should I believe that?"

"Because it's in your best interest, Sergeant, just as it is in mine. What are you going to do now? You need supplies. You need ammunition. You need a way to pay your troops."

Stark kept his face impassive. "We can get all that."

"Can you? What about the enemy? Will they sit back and let you reorganize, or will they hit you as hard as they can when they realize you're isolated now? What about the civilians in the colony? How will you control them? And don't forgot the corporations, Sergeant. They run things. That's how the country works these days. You've just seized all their assets on the Moon, and blocked their chances of getting their hands on more. They'll make sure they get it back, no matter what it takes. What happens when the corporations make sure America retaliates, sending a punitive force to regain control?"

"I don't have answers to all that, yet," Stark admitted. "They're tough questions, but they're something we can handle."

"'We'?" Meecham questioned. "Is there a 'we'? Or is it you giving the orders now?"

"So far, it's me."

Meecham smiled, a fierce baring of teeth. "Fernandez gave you a clean evaluation. I should have him shot, not you. No, Sergeant Stark, you're too good a soldier, too important an asset to waste."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"We can make a deal, Stark. I need people on my staff who can make things happen. People who are good leaders. That's you. You can be an officer. A senior officer. I can always use another Major, or better yet, another Colonel. Sound attractive?"

Stark laughed. "So I hand the troops back over to you, become an officer, and everything's fine, huh? You think nobody would ever find out what happened up here?"

Meecham nodded. "As I said, you're a smart soldier. Okay, maybe we'll need a scapegoat. Maybe two or three. It doesn't have to be you. You can come out of this smelling like a rose."

"What about those scapegoats? What'd happen to them?"

Meecham smiled once more, this time in a comradely fashion. "I'm sure you have enemies, Stark, people who you'd rather not have around anymore, people who've hurt you in the past. They can take the fall. Every way you look at it, you win."

"And why should you do all this for me?" Stark inquired in a soft voice.

"Because I'll win, too. That's how deals get made, Stark. Once you're a Colonel I'll take you under my wing, teach you what you need to know to make General yourself someday."

"Sure."

"Is that an agreement?" Meecham demanded, perhaps a little too eagerly.

"An agreement?" Stark shook his head, no longer hiding his disgust. "I guess you figured everybody has to be like you, huh? Out for themselves. Sorry. No deal. I didn't do this for myself."

Meecham reddened with anger, dropping all pretense of friendship. "You'll regret those words."

"I doubt it. There's a helluva lot I may end up regretting about today, but not those words."

General Meecham finally stood, nose elevated as if he were trying to look down on Stark. "You'll die a traitor's death. Loyal soldiers will come here and suppress this rebellion, wipe out this blot on the record of the military."

Stark laughed again, this time harsh and mocking. "General, you killed off all those loyal troops. Or didn't you notice back in your nice, safe headquarters?"