Грег Бир - The War Dogs Trilogy

A BIVOUAC ON Earth means a temporary encampment where troops have not had time to pitch tents or set up any structure. On Mars, of course, there is rarely any sort of bivouac without tents or other cover. We steal words from the past and abuse them.

Gamecock does not enlighten as to our tactical. He’s as lackwit as the rest of us. And the general still doesn’t do anything but sit there, his gloved hands grabbing the seat bars so tight they look like they might split. He’s seen rough shit. The way he’s not looking at the pits and debris, maybe he saw it here.

Tak, hanging on beside me, studies the field of recent battle with screw-lipped concentration, like he’s constipated. Neemie is motion sick but holding it in. Only Vee-Def keeps a steely squint toward some far destination, wherever it may be. Heroic. Stoic. So unlike him.

The overloaded Skell climbs a slope and tops a barchan—a big sinuousity of blown sand about fifteen meters high—and rolls for a time along the crest, then turns with a sickening, tire-scurry lurch and descends, sideways, sliding, threatening to roll—but Gamecock corrects just before we hit the hardpan.

Without warning, just beyond the dust-deviled edge of sand, the lieutenant colonel takes us straight over rutted, ancient mud, nearly knocking me loose, and with another lurch, down into a deep furrow. He brakes the Skell to a trembling halt within five paces of a rough lean-to. The lean-to is made of capsule and tube parts and covers a big tent, a command tent.

Beyond the lean-to, the furrow splits, carving a Y in the flatness. Gamecock jumps from the Skell. We’re quickly the center of attention as heavy rank emerges from the lean-to. This Y-shaped depression is our recon point. It is full of Asian and Russian brass—two Chinese generals and three Russian colonels. Boy are they happy to see us! Now there are sergeants and a corporal to boss around, along with Gamecock.

Kwak dismounts slowly, passes his weapons to a Russian colonel, and turns toward us. Face pale, resigned, he gathers strength to summon us into the command tent. Where is this honcho’s staff? Each one of these officers should have security and staff and a whole lean-to or command tent apiece. Clearly, they have fallen on hard times.

I glance at Gamecock and then at Tak, whose constipation has relaxed into focused wonder, and share a silent fear that here, buckaroos, there are far too many cowboys and not nearly enough Indians.

Tak touches helms with me. “Why so many generals?” he asks.

“Somebody fucked up major ops,” I guess.

The lean-to is jury-rigged and works more as concealment than protection or support. The command tent beneath resembles an old hot air balloon, sagging and rippling under the curved and cracked aluminum and plastic. A one-person airlock replaces the birth canal entrance, but operates much the same way: you enter, wrap yourself in membrane, air is squeezed back into the tent, then you unzip an inner panel, unwind, and step inside. We make sure DJ and Vee-Def brush down thoroughly, not to disgrace us.

Tak and I silently assess the situation once we’re in. This is not a place of safety or refuge. They’ve probably been using the tent mostly as a place to talk. First, the pressure is no better than it would be most of the way up Everest. Even so, the thin air smells of death—foul-sweet, clogging. None of the officers looks fit. Most have sustained crush or strike injuries. Wounds tend to get nasty in low pressure. Flesh needs oxygen at decent pressure to purify and heal, otherwise anaerobes move in. I long to seal up my skintight and leave. We all do.

Gamecock introduces us around the ragged circle. Despite wanting to gag, I’m in awe. Here we are, grunts from a fragmented squad, sharing the air—however foul—with commanding officers from three partner regions and five nations. These guys hang out with world leaders. Certainly a group worth rescuing, and that may improve our chances…

Major General Kwak proves adept at English and is in slightly better health than the others. He tells us, in a tight, pain-racked voice, that they have a little water, another day’s worth of air, and—at the northern branch of the furrow—something that would be invaluable if it weren’t broken: a Chinese fountain, covered with sand and dust, not by design, but by the local weather. It’s at least two years old, from a previous drop.

“Can you fix?” he asks with a hopeful rise of one brow.

Gamecock and DJ confer in whispers. I can’t hear what they’re saying. I know that DJ had tech training on fountains but was never certified.

As a Russian named Efremov pushes out a sag in the tent, Kwak slowly steps over to a fold-out table supporting a small projector. “You must be asking, why are so many generals? Because commanders must study ground before committing troops to battle.” He gives a wry shake of his head. “We arrived with many space frames, an orbital command station, many satellites. Seventy-five transport sleds, hundreds of vehicles. And now they are destroyed or scattered. We made emergency drop, and are now here.”

These impressive combined ops did not include us. They must have arrived separately from our squadron, weeks before.

“We have not been able to establish comm with our other forces. We do not know where they may be, or how many survive. We were unfortunate…” Major General Kwak pauses, chest heaving as he works to suppress Cheynes-Stokes. With so many in the tent, long speeches are clearly not in order, but that’s never stopped generals.

Kwak continues. “Our ships encountered Antagonist defenses in orbit with at least forty of their… snake-trains, upon their own insertion and entry.” He looks less sure of his words and refers to a Russian colonel, who translates for us, “Snake-trains… The general refers to Antagonist resupply caravans. Carrying weapons, troops, great amounts of volatiles.”

“Comets?” Gamecock asks.

“We think so, yes,” Efremov says, and drops down on his knees. These few words and he’s almost out for the count.

“Clearly, something large,” Kwak resumes. Determined to finish this grim briefing, the general refocuses with shuddering effort. “There is only one of our satellites still in orbit, though that may be down now as well. No more frames will arrive for at least a week. Until we understand how our present forces are dispersed, and what strength remains, we are merely observers. Are we agreed on this intelligence, gentlemen?”

Everybody’s agreed, if not happy.

A Colonel Orlov pushes up and struggles to do his bit. “Chinese fountain… inoperable. We lost engineers in the drop. But it may still be reworked—repaired.”

“We have an engineer,” Gamecock says. DJ looks apprehensive. “Do you have proper tools?”

“Possibly,” Kwak says. “But not many spare parts.”

The officers confer in Chinese and Russian. Then another officer enters the tent and looks around: an Indian with a swollen face, chapped and cracked lips and cheeks, his right arm badly broken and hanging in a crude cable sling. Lots of starboard breaks here. A command sled could have landed hard and injured everybody inside, all at once.

“We are in regard to repair and refit,” Kwak tells him.

“Most excellent.” The newcomer reaches out his left hand to Roost, thinks better of that gesture—no good for Muslims, and who knows?—withdraws the hand, looks around with sunken eyes. “I am Brigadier Jawahar Lal Bhagati. Who here is capable of our salvation, and making do for all?”

The old fountain seems to be our last hope.

Gamecock puts a hand on DJ’s shoulder. “Sir, this man is the best we have.”