Marko Kloos - Terms of Enlistment

Ricci makes a lousy squad leader. Twice now, our squad has been chewed up by the defending squad, and twice, the instructors have reset the exercise and ordered us to do it again. Ricci does not deviate from his plan, which involves leapfrogging from doorway to doorway on the main road. Ricci doesn’t want to play infantry, and it shows. He’s aggressive where he should be cautious, and timid where he should charge ahead. We’ve wasted two hours on the setup and execution of his attack plan, only to get shot to bits by Halley’s squad repeatedly, and I have no idea why the instructors aren’t letting someone else drive the bus for a change.

“You need to get your team across the road faster,” Ricci says as we come through the same alleyway for the third time, our squad taking up covering positions at the intersection with the main road. The illusion is almost perfect—there’s trash everywhere, the walls are adorned with foreign graffiti and flecked with all kinds of bodily fluids, and there’s warbly Chinese pop music coming from shops along the road. I’ve never been to the Far East, but the fake city looks just like the places I’ve seen in the news and war movies. The only thing missing is the population.

“It doesn’t matter how fast we move,” I tell Ricci. There’s a modestly tall building overlooking the intersection at the end of the road, a hundred yards ahead, and the defending squad has at least a fireteam in place up there. “You’re having us charge a defended position, and they know we’re coming. You can’t outrun a freaking flechette.”

“Well, General Know-It-All, do you have a better idea?”

I bring up the tactical display on my monocle and study the overhead map of the block.

“Let’s split the squad, and go up those two side alleys, one team per side. When we’re at the intersection, we pop smoke and then rush over from two sides. We can’t go around the building because they’ll shoot us in the ass from above if we do.”

“Popping smoke, you might as well yell, ‘Here we come’,” Ricci says.

“We don’t make our own cover, we get shot to shit again. Your call, boss.” I put just a little bit of acid into the last word, and Ricci flips me the bird.

“Two teams, then,” he says. “I’ll take mine up to the right, and you go left. You go ahead and pop smoke if you want. I’ll use the diversion while you guys get fucked up.”

“We’ll see. At least we won’t all get killed together in the middle of the intersection like the last two times.”

Being on the attack is a crappy task. The defenders know you’re coming, and you have to put yourself out into the open to come to where they are. You do, however, have the initiative.

We dash from house to house, using the cover of store awnings and doorways to mask our approach to the intersection. On my tactical display, I can see the other team making their way up the alley to our right.

We reach the intersection without any contact. I scan the top floor of the building across the intersection for movement, but the defending squad has it together. I know they have at least a fireteam in that building—it’s a natural chokepoint, and we can’t go around it without exposing ourselves—but they are playing a good game of hide-and-seek.

I toggle the squad channel.

“Fire team Bravo, in position. Ready when you are.”

“Go on three,” Ricci says, and I pull a smoke grenade from the harness on the front of my battle armor.

“Wait for smoke,” I say, but Ricci is already counting down.

“One…two…”

I let out a curse, pop the safety cap of the smoke grenade, and hurl it into the intersection.

“… three !”

On my tactical display, I can see that Ricci’s entire fire team has left cover. Then I hear the rasping of their rifles as they fire automatic bursts from the hip while running.

“Dumb fuck,” I say, and give my team the signal to rush. The smoke grenade goes off with a muffled “pop”, and there’s an instant cloud of thick, chemical smoke over our side of the intersection.

“Go, go, go !”

We rush into the smoke, towards the building. It’s only about fifty yards away, but that’s an incredibly long distance when you know there are people with rifles and grenade launchers trying to keep you from reaching the finish line.

The training rifles emit no muzzle flashes, but I can hear the staccato of automatic fire coming from the building, on both sides of our advance. It looks like Halley has most of her squad in that building in anticipation of our dumb leader’s third attempt at an offense. The tactical computers score individual kills, and so far, our squad has chalked up a big, fat zero.

Over to our right, where Ricci’s team is rushing across the intersection, I can hear cursing as the first recruits are hit by the virtual projectiles from the guns of Halley’s squad. I rush through the cloud of artificial fog, listening to the chatter of at least two rifles from the part of the building in front of me, and my stomach turns in anticipation of that little electric jolt that signals a hit. When a recruit gets nailed by a virtual round, the tactical computer will assess the location of the hit, and disable things based on the severity of the simulated injury. If you take a lethal hit, the computer turns off your comlink and tactical interface, so you won’t be able to communicate or share data with the rest of your squad. It also turns off your rifle, so you can’t cheat and fire back while you’re dead.

Luckily, the defenders facing my fire team are merely firing blindly into the smoke, hoping to score hits by accident. My team makes it through the smoke and across the intersection.

When we’re all lined up on the side wall of the building, I check my tactical display for Ricci’s half of the squad. Their symbols are blinking red, meaning there’s no status information coming from their transmitters. I toggle the squad channel again, but I already know it’s pointless.

“Squad leader, Bravo. You guys across?”

There’s no response on the squad channel—they’ve all been mowed down by Halley’s defending teams, and their computers have turned off their network links.

“Well, looks like we’re on our own on this one,” I tell my team members.

“Beats the hell out of being dead again,” one of them says, and the others nod in agreement.

“Game’s not over yet,” I say.

There’s a doorway on the side of the building. I signal my team to take up positions on either side. Halley has her shit together, so I don’t want to just rush the team into the building. I take a grenade out of the harness on the front of my battle armor, and pop the safety cap off with my thumb.

“Ready?” I ask, and get three nods in response.

I activate the timer of the grenade by slapping the fuse button against the hard shell of my breastplate.

“Frag out!”

I toss the grenade into the doorway, aiming for the wall beyond the doorframe for a deflection shot into the hallway beyond. The grenade bounces against the concrete, and skitters onto the floor out of sight.

“ Fuck !” I hear, and there’s the sound of quick movement in the hallway, as someone hastily scampers out of the way of the little black sphere with the pebbled outer skin.

Then the sound module in the grenade goes off with a muffled bang. The exercise grenade emits a bloom of simulated projectiles, beams reaching out in every direction, deflecting off hard surfaces and behaving much like their lethal counterparts.

“Go!”

We dash into the hallway in two pairs, by the book. There’s nobody in the hallway beyond, but there is another doorway to our right, ten feet ahead. I see movement beyond, and rush up to the door, rifle at the ready. One of Halley’s troops is scrambling to his feet just beyond the doorway, and I raise the rifle and shoot two bursts into his back just as he tries to bring his rifle around. There’s another enemy in the room, still by the window, and he has his rifle trained on me. I know that he has beaten me to the punch, and I cringe in anticipation of the jolt that signals a hit, but when he pulls the trigger, his rifle remains silent. The recruit who paired up with me for the entry steps into the doorway, aims his rifle, and we both fire a burst into the second defender.