“No,” Doug Hart agreed, looking grim. “We get in, do our business, and leave. Like I said, half a day tops, from Dismount to Recall. Less, if we can manage it. I’d rather not be anywhere near that Deng concentration when we have to transmit to FleetCom. Hopper . . .”
Hopper cleared his throat. “Sir?”
“What equipment do you take?”
The Marine answered immediately. “We go suited, sir. Our stealth suits won’t match Red’s Chameleon screens, but they’ll mask our heat signatures. We take energy conversion screens to cover our positions. If we’re blown, they’ll protect us from Enemy fire for a little while, sir, and transfer energy they absorb to operate the automated infinite repeaters tied into the system.”
Hart nodded. “I don’t expect you’ll be blown, but we’re always thorough.”
“Yessir. My mission is to provide security for Sergeant Petra. He operates comm and does any additional recon he can from our position. My job is to guard him while he does it and make damn sure he gets to our recon position in one piece so he can transmit Gunny’s data.”
Hart nodded once again. Clearly, Danny Hopper knew his business, even if this was his first combat mission. “Very good, Hopper. Fritz, you take point. Nursemaid him if he needs it. I don’t think he will. Questions?”
Nobody had any.
Willum DeVries knew he wouldn’t sleep till this mission was over.
“All right, then, Full Alert Status as of now. Red, take us up.”
Hart gestured curtly to Willum; he followed his commander into the Command Compartment and strapped into his seat. Banjo scarcely paid heed to their arrival; he was intent on Red’s data screens. The Bolo moved smoothly. The decking tipped as she climbed the steep grade up out of the river. The main screen flashed to a real-time video picture. They halted again while still underwater.
“Extending whip array, Doug.”
The picture shifted, periscopelike as the Bolo lifted a sensor array into the air. The lens cleared and revealed an abandoned boat landing. Pleasure craft sat in the starlight, motionless hulks that registered clearly under Red’s light-enhancing sensors. The first faint hint of dawn was visible in the dark sky. Nobody left alive to rent any boats. . . . Willum wondered if the Deng had spared anyone to run the machinery. He didn’t know much about Deng military operational strategy.
The thought of becoming a slave to a hairy, multilegged “spodder” with a body the size of a small dog was almost as bad as the thought of dying.
“Proceed, Red,” Hart said quietly. “Engage Chameleon.”
“Chameleon engaged.”
They rumbled quietly up out of the water and headed into Enemy territory.
The boat ramp I have accessed is made of concrete which is approximately five centimeters thick, varying in depth in the manner of poured concrete. Ordinarily a vehicle of my weight would crack such a thin concrete slab; but my designers have considered the need for leaving no trace of my passage. My treads are each 0.9 meters across. They and my independent-drive wheels protrude beyond either side of my hull, skirted with chameleon screen nearly to ground level. Thus my treads and wheels distribute my weight across a broad cross-sectional space, which gives me a ground-pressure per square centimeter less than that of an adult male human.
I pull onto the concrete pad and halt, surveying the access road beyond. It is made of dirt, with old track imprints from wheeled vehicles. I lower my rear track-camouflaging unit and engage its drive. I move forward, scanning the imprints and sending their configuration to the roller I now trail behind my rear fender. Its thousands of small studs extend and retract in synchronized patterns to duplicate the tracks I encounter. When I pass over the tracks, obliterating them and making my own minute signature in the dirt, my track-camo unit recreates the old tracks in my wake, leaving no trace of my passage.
I follow the dirt road for 5.8 kilometers and encounter the paved road my on-board charts have indicated. There is no traffic. This concerns me; but following the paved road is the better choice of those I currently perceive. It is a faster, more direct route and I am less likely to encounter very soft ground in which my track-camo unit would have more difficulty in covering signs of my passage. It is also better than very rough, broken terrain which would slow down my progress and place us behind schedule for this mission. I have already discussed this decision with my Commander, who agrees that it is the best choice; but the lack of traffic disturbs me. I voice this concern.
“Any sign of aerial observation?” Doug asks. “Or ground crews that might be watching?”
I do a passive scan for Enemy energy signatures. The only traces I discover are to the north, over the visible horizon. I see no sign of aerial capabilities in this region. Should I be spotted from orbit, my Chameleon screens will mimic the reflective surfaces, angles, and part-to-part ratios of a mining ore car. We should be safe.
“No, Doug. I am uneasy; but we should be fine.”
“Let’s do it, then. Move out as planned.”
I turn onto the highway and drive slowly north, at the top speed of an ore car. The slow pace is worrisome, but necessary. I scan the surrounding countryside on passive systems and register the presence of small farms. I pick up no trace of human heat signatures. Farm animals have been left to fend for themselves. Cattle are visible in fenced pastures. They are thin, but appear to be surviving. I cannot determine whether the same can be said of their human owners. We do not know the Deng policy on captured humans. I file my discoveries for later transmission to FleetCom. It is useful to know what the Enemy will leave intact as well as what it will destroy.
We join a convoy of ore cars from a side road while still an estimated 16.1 kilometers from the processing plant. These ore cars are southbound from a small mine which shows on my maps but is not considered a target. The terrain surrounding it is too rough for Enemy forces to concentrate there. My scan shows no human or Enemy personnel inside any of these cars. This matches records from the mining colony, which state that these vehicles are fully automated. I am pleased the Enemy has not stationed its own personnel on the ore cars, as this would complicate my mission. I scan the signals which these ore cars use to communicate with one another and mimic their own transmissions, asking permission to join the convoy. Space is made for me. I pull into the space and join the line of slow-moving ore carriers.
We are still an estimated 10.8 kilometers from the processing plant when I encounter our first direct evidence of human survival on a Deng-held world. At a distance of 3062 meters we pass a fenced enclave in which my passive data-gathering sensors detect both human and Enemy personnel. From visual data, I determine that the humans present in this enclave are largely female and/or immature children. No males over the approximate human age of twelve are present. My Commander watches them on video screen and remains silent. Banjo speaks.
“Bloody bastards are using ’em as hostages. Must be forcing the men and most of the women to work the processing plant.”
My Commander nods silently. I note that the Enemy’s need for war materiel is sufficiently urgent to use slave labor rather than import their own labor force. I fear these people will die during the reoccupation of BFS-3793-C, but I see no way to safeguard them. My mission profile does not include protection of civilian populations. I add my observations to my growing report file and turn my attention to mission parameters. The first of our two targets is within sensor range.
The maintenance depot for ore carriers holds six such vehicles. I am pleased. I tell the ore carriers ahead of me and behind me that I must break ranks for depot maintenance. I receive messages acknowledging my status update. I turn into the depot lot and take up a position which commands a view of the processing plant below. It is a good position, as extrapolated from my on-board charts. From this place, I can perform a thorough reconnaissance of this facility without risking my Dismount Teams.
I go to work.
The processing-plant reconnoiter went smoothly.
So smoothly, Willum started to worry.
He’d always heard the old military axiom, “No plan survives contact with the Enemy.” So when they completed their recon from the maintenance lot without a single hitch, he started to fret. Things have already gone wrong, he tried telling himself. We’re due a break or two after what happened to Bonny and LRH-1327. But the pep talk didn’t help much. He was still worried.