The Heart of Valour (37 page)

Torin zeroed. Turned into the coordinate and swore. Even at the absolute outside edge of her scanner’s range there was no mistaking what she saw coming up the frozen river. Tank. “Fukking wonderful,” she sighed.

“At least there’s only one of them.”

“It’s a
tank
, Sergeant, one’s enough. And, if you’ll recall, the last tank we faced was firing HE rounds.”

“We don’t know this one’s been reloaded.”

“We don’t know it hasn’t,” Torin snorted. On the bright side, tanks were noticeable. There’d be no covert attacks. Not that the Others had been doing much more than the most basic surround-and-pound so far. “Is there a reason endemic to Crucible that it’s not firing?” If they could see the tank, the tank could see them.

“They’re used to train the recruits in antitank warfare so their programming has them moving in close before they engage.”

“The last one fired on us from the middle of the lake.”

“Not exactly the middle, Gunny.” Catching sight of Torin’s expression, she added. “But close enough.”

The 20-mm top-mounted machine gun made it impossible for infantry to get close to a tank even with sufficient cover. Once again, they’d have to take it out from a distance.

“I wonder how deep the river is,” Torin muttered, watching the tank’s relentless grind forward. It was moving slowly enough they’d have a few minutes to come up with a solution. McGuinty would have to reconfigure his jamming program for the tank, and that would not only leave them defenseless against more fliers—she’d never liked the sound of defenseless—but wouldn’t actually solve the problem of the tank. Better to let McGuinty get what sleep he could. “The drones don’t actually see us,” she said slowly, “they’re targeting our combats—uniforms, vests, boots, helmets—everything that puts out some kind of a signal. If a couple of Marines stripped down to their bodyliners and went out with grenades…”

“The drones would read the grenade the moment it was activated.”

“Good point.” That also took Dr. Sloan and her noncombatant chip out of the equation. Not that Torin had been looking forward to suggesting the doctor take a brisk walk through three dozen or so drones and blow up a tank.

“And there’s the problem of the drones charging the door if we open it to send a team after the tank.”

Torin grinned as a plan came together. “Actually, Sergeant, I think I’ve got that covered.”

* * *

Torin had to give Major Svensson credit for one hell of a poker face. He was showing at best polite interest while the Marines in the room all wore a variation on
“You have got to be fukking kidding me.”
As identical an expression as varying physiognomies allowed.

“Let’s just see if I have a handle on what you’re suggesting. Someone strips down to their bodyliner, is lowered out this window…” His gesture at the blown window was admirably casual. “…removes the launch tube containing the BFW from the downed flier, and is pulled back inside with the tube. Did I miss something, Gunny?”

“No, sir.”

“And then we launch the BFW and blow up the opposing tank.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can’t decide if that’s crazy or brilliant.”

“Do we get a vote, sir?” Sakur asked behind him. Torin saw the ghost of a smile pull at the major’s mouth. “No, Private, you do not. Gunny, what makes you so certain they’re only targeting the signals from our gear?”

“They’re not shooting at the doctor’s pigeons, sir.”

This time, he couldn’t stop the smile. “Very convincing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not exactly good enough, though.”

“I didn’t think it would be, sir.” She met his gaze, held it, and waited.

After a long moment, he sighed. “Go ahead.”

Torin took off her mitts, handed Kichar her weapon—ignoring the blush that stained the private’s high cheekbones—and bent to undo her boots.

“Sir, is the gunny…”

“Yes.”

“I could help.”

“You could be quiet, Sakur.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vest and combats took no time at all, then she set her helmet on the pile and stepped in front of the window. She felt lighter although her uniform weighed as little as tech allowed.

Nothing.

“Maybe they’re not paying attention.”

Her reply was to step back to the pile, pick up her vest, and toss it across the same space.

Four shots blew it across the room.

“Sakur, get that for me, would you. Stay low.”

The major shook his head and started toward the door. “It’s a crazy plan, Gunny. Go for it. I’ll tell McGuinty we’ll need the launch codes.”

“Kichar.”

“Gunnery Sergeant!”

With a nice solid piece of the anchor between her and the drones, Torin pulled her combats back on. “Go get that fifty feet of rope from your pack.”

“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”

Kichar pounded off and Torin looked up to see the rest of the team watching her. “What?”

“How did you know she had the rope, Gunny?”

Torin thumbed the front seal closed. “It seemed to be a reasonable assumption since she brought everything else on the list.”

“Gunny?” Hisht paused, one boot off. “I brought the rope, too.”

“You willing to have Kichar in your pack?” When he nodded, she thumbed her PCU. “Kichar.”

“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”

“Grab the rope out of Hisht’s pack while you’re down there.”

“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”

“I don’t suppose any of the rest of you brought rope?” she asked, bending to lace her boots. “Or maybe an antitank gun?” she added when there was no more rope in the offing.

Sakur snorted. “It wasn’t on the list, Gunny.”

Torin snorted right back at him. “I’m betting it will be next time.”

* * *

“It may not
need
all three of us,” Sergeant Jiir admitted, pulling off his boots and spreading long toes inside the liner. “But it’ll go faster and easier with all three of us, and that tank is getting closer while we argue.”

“We have three NCOs to thirty-five brand-new Marines,” Torin reminded him. “We can’t afford to lose you.”

“And that’s why you were on point, Gunnery Sergeant?”

Okay, she had to give him that one; they were also a little short on anything but basic skills. “Anything happens to you, and I’m going to get cranky.”

He was too good to let triumph show in his smile. “I’ll be careful.”

Since in this particular instance, careful would actually count for something, she nodded and rejoined Hisht by the window. In next to no time, his fifty feet of rope had become a net with braided carrying handles. “I’m impressed.”

His nose ridges flared and he ducked his head. “It is a high trees skill.”

High trees. Krai for back country. “When we get out of this, I’ll send a message to your
jernil
, thanking her for teaching it to you, because that net’s going to make this one hell of a lot easier.”

He looked up then. “You are not Krai. How did you know…?”

“I’m a gunnery sergeant, Hisht. We know everything. Krai, Human, di’Taykan—if it’s part of the Corps, we know it.” Specifically, it had been a lucky guess. Seemed the sort of skill a grandmother would teach. “Piroj.”

“Gunny?”

“The rope secure?”

“I’d send my
jernil
down it, Gunny.”

“Too bad she’s not here.”

The drones didn’t shoot at the rope—it had registered as inert, but Torin had long since learned not to take that kind of thing for granted.

The Krai’s bootliners were a lot more flexible than either di’Taykans’ or Humans’ but not quite flexible enough to grip through. Liners and mitts shoved behind rope belts, they climbed with feet bare and slid the liners back on when they reached the wreck. Quickly clearing snow from the point where the launch tube connected to the flier required a little lateral thinking.

“Uh, Gunny, are they doing what it looks like they’re doing?”

“Does it look like they’re pissing on it, Kichar?”

“Uh…”

“Then that’s what they’re doing.”

Although it was difficult to clearly see what was happening, Piroj’s voice carried. “Well, I’m sorry, Sergeant, but the whole long underwear, surrounded by a hundred drones programmed to kill me, standing next to a BFW thing has me a bit clamped up.”

“Point and shoot, Private!”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Torin was beginning to realize that instinctive responses to a DI had some advantages.

“Gunnery Sergeant Kerr.”

“Sergeant Annatahwee.”

“The tank’ll be in firing range in three minutes.”

“Roger that. Any idea what it’s carrying?”

“Not until it starts shooting, Gunny. It doesn’t have the weight restrictions the fliers do, so…”

“Yeah, I get the picture.” She leaned toward the window. “Tank’s within three minutes, Sergeant.”

“Tube release is bent, Gunny. Hisht, hand me that hunk of… whatever the hell that is.”

The first crack of metal against metal wasn’t entirely unexpected. Unfortunately, neither was the reaction from the drones.

“
Chreen! Chreen! Chreen!
Fuk!”

Torin figured the single shot had been an attempt to elicit a response the drones could lock in on. “You guys all right?”

Jiir answered without looking up from the tube release. “Yeah. We’re good.”

“Good thing Hisht already emptied his bladder,” Piroj snorted.

“
Gren sa talamac!
”

“I’m going to stuff this missile up your ass in a minute,” Jiir growled. “On my mark, both of you pull. Three two one, mark! That’s got it.”

Tube and missile went into the net.

The drones took another three shots. One rang off the launch tube.

“I think they’re going to notice it moving, Gunny.”

This had always been the most dangerous part of the plan. “Get back up here.”

Using hands and feet both on one length of rope, the three Krai were back inside almost before she finished talking while Sakur and Kichar hauled up the second length, launch tube dangling off the end.

The drones began firing. Marines along the west side of the anchor returned fire, hopefully keeping them from locking on the moving target.

“Tank in one minute, Gunny.”

“You heard the Sergeant, Marines! Clear the medical center!” The best defense usually included not being where artillery fire was going to land.

“Gunny, the warhead!”

Rounds were ringing off the metal.

Torin took the top off a drone rising up to aim. “There’s no chance of them blowing it unless they get in a lucky shot with an explosive…”

The explosion took out a piece of window trim.

“…round,” she finished as the launch tube hit the floor, the clank barely muffled by the net. “Everyone all right?”

“Gunny, you’re bleeding!”

She checked a cut on the edge of her jaw as she crossed to the net. “Minor. Everyone else?”

“Same kind of minor, Gunny.”

“Good. And good work, Marines. Get dressed.” She scooped up the net, tube, and missile. “I’ll be on the roof.”

Unfortunately, it took a little longer than a minute.

The tank’s first shell slammed through the broken windows on the south side of the anchor. Torin stumbled as she stepped out onto the roof, recovered, and sprinted for the south end, dumping the net as she ran. At the south end of the roof, she dropped to one knee. “McGuinty?”

Yawning, he stumbled forward, touched a slate to the top of the tube, and peered down at the screen. “It’s running.”

“Whose slate?”

“Duarte’s. Lots of room once I dumped her porn.” He blinked. “I shouldn’t have told you…”

“I know what porn is, McGuinty.”

“Right.” He backed away. “As soon as the launch code locks, it’ll fire.”

“Tank’s lining up another shot!”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Torin adjusted her stance slightly.

“Uh, Gunny?” McGuinty’s frown tipped his helmet forward. “How are you planning to aim that thing?”

Eyes focused through her scanner at the tank, Torin grinned. “Point and shoot, McGuinty. Point and sho…”

A heavy recoil on launch could knock a flier out of the sky, so a certain amount of movement had been built into the mechanism that joined the tubes to the flier. Missing that mechanism, Torin was flung back about two meters, landing heavily on her ass, ears ringing.

“Gunny! You all right?”

In the distance, the tank burned.

Tossing the tube aside, Torin grinned. “I’m good.”

T
orin watched the sunrise through her scanner, habit marking the time and the temperature. The cold air was bracing—where bracing meant not quite cold enough to freeze her nose hair but cold enough to chase away the fatigue of a night on her feet. She’d cycled the fireteams in and out of the community hall all night, making sure everyone got at least a couple of hours’ sleep. They were young; they could manage on next to nothing for a few days. Fortunately, when youth fled, experience took over. Torin and the major were old hands at grabbing a minute here, a minute there—combat napping—and both sergeants insisted that after years of shepherding recruit platoons through Crucible, they’d probably spent as much time awake in the field. Remembering her own Crucible and how the DIs never seemed to sleep, appearing when needed as well as when they were the last thing the recruits wanted to see, Torin believed them.

They’d passed the hundred drone mark around 0630. Fortunately, their programming seemed to consist of nothing more complicated than
this is the enemy, this is where the enemy is, shoot them.
While the drones were responsive to external stimuli to the extent that they refused to just stand still and be shot, they weren’t able to plan anything complex enough to keep the situation from turning into a siege.

The
NirWentry
would be back in six days. They could survive a siege, but there were definitely more tanks coming and probably more fliers.

The snow squeaked under boot treads behind her, and she smiled. “Good morning, Dr. Sloan.”

“I guess gunnery sergeants really do know everything,” the doctor murmured as she came around to stand at Torin’s right.