Dogs Of War Part 13

There was a silence, broken only by the distant crashing of timber as the Bolo moved into the edge of the forest. Hundred-foot trees leaned and went down before its advance.

"Let him go," Blauvelt said. "Like Stinzi says, he can't hurt anything."

"What if he turns back?"

"h.e.l.l," a man muttered. "Old Bobby wouldn't hurt us us ..." ..."

"That car," Crewe snarled. "You're wasting valuable time."

Blauvelt frowned. "All right-but you don't make a move unless it looks like he's going to come back and hit the town. Clear?"

"Let's go."

Blauvelt led the way at a trot toward the town garage.

The Bolo's trail was a twenty-five-foot-wide swath cut through the virgin jungle; the tread-prints were pressed eighteen inches into the black loam, where it showed among the jumble of fallen branches.

"It's moving about twenty miles an hour, faster than we can go," Crewe said. "If it holds its present track, the curve will bring it back to your town in about five hours."

"He'll sheer off," Blauvelt said.

"Maybe. But we won't risk it. Pick up a heading of 270, Blauvelt. We'll try an intercept by cutting across the circle."

Blauvelt complied wordlessly. The car moved ahead in the deep green gloom under the huge s.h.a.ggy-barked trees. Oversized insects buzzed and thumped against the canopy. Small and medium lizards hopped, darted, flapped. Fern leaves as big as awnings sc.r.a.ped along the car as it clambered over loops and coils of tough root, leaving streaks of plant juice across the clear plastic. Once they grated against an exposed ridge of crumbling brown rock; flakes as big as saucers scaled off, exposing dull metal.

"Dorsal fin of a scout-boat," Crewe said. "That's what's left of what was supposed to be a corrosion resistant alloy."

They pa.s.sed more evidences of a long-ago battle: the ma.s.sive, shattered breech mechanism of a platform-mounted h.e.l.lbore, the gutted cha.s.sis of what might have been a bomb car, portions of a downed aircraft, fragments of shattered armor. Many of the relics were of Terran design, but often it was the curiously curved, spidery lines of a rusted Axorc microgun or implosion projector that poked through the greenery.

"It must have been a heavy action," Crewe said. "One of the ones toward the end that didn't get much notice at the time. There's stuff here I've never seen before, experimental types, I imagine, rushed in by the enemy for a last-ditch stand."

Blauvelt grunted.

"Contact in another minute or so," Crewe said.

As Blauvelt opened his mouth to reply, there was a blinding flash, a violent impact, and the jungle erupted in their faces.

The seat webbing was cutting into Crewe's ribs. His ears were filled with a high, steady ringing; there was a taste of bra.s.s in his mouth. His head throbbed in time with the thudding of his heart.

The car was on its side, the interior a jumble of loose objects, torn wiring, broken plastic. Blauvelt was half under him, groaning. He slid off him, saw that he was groggy but conscious.

"Changed your mind yet about your harmless pet?" he asked, wiping a trickle of blood from his right eye. "Let's get clear before he fires those empty guns again. Can you walk?"

Blauvelt mumbled, crawled out through the broken canopy. Crewe groped through debris for the command transmitter- "Good G.o.d," Blauvelt croaked. Crewe twisted, saw the high, narrow, iodine-dark shape of the alien machine perched on jointed crawler-legs fifty feet away, framed by blast-scorched foliage. Its multiple-barreled micro-gun battery was aimed dead at the overturned car.

"Don't move a muscle," Crewe whispered. Sweat trickled down his face. An insect, like a stub-winged four-inch dragonfly, came and buzzed about them, moved on. Hot metal pinged, contracting. Instantly, the alien hunter-killer moved forward another six feet, depressing its gun muzzles.

"Run for it!" Blauvelt cried. He came to his feet in a scrabbling lunge; the enemy machine swung to track him ...

A giant tree leaned, snapped, was tossed aside. The great green-streaked prow of the Bolo forged into view, interposing itself between the smaller machine and the men. It turned to face the enemy; fire flashed, reflecting against the surrounding trees; the ground jumped once, twice, to hard, racking shocks. Sound boomed dully in Crewe's blast-numbed ears. Bright sparks fountained above the Bolo as it advanced. Crewe felt the ma.s.sive impact as the two fighting machines came together, he saw the Bolo hesitate, then forge ahead, rearing up, pushing the lighter machine aside, grinding over it, pa.s.sing on, to leave a crumpled ma.s.s of wreckage in its wake.

"Did you see that, Crewe?" Blauvelt shouted in his ear. "Did you see what Bobby did? He walked right into its guns and smashed it flatter'n crockbrewed beer!"

The Bolo halted, turned ponderously, sat facing the men. Bright streaks of molten metal ran down its armored flanks, fell spattering and smoking into crushed greenery.

"He saved our necks," Blauvelt said. He staggered to his feet, picked his way past the Bolo to stare at the smoking ruins of the smashed adversary.

"Unit Nine five four of the Line, reporting contact with hostile force," the mechanical voice of the Bolo spoke suddenly. the mechanical voice of the Bolo spoke suddenly. "Enemy unit destroyed. I have sustained extensive damage, but am still operational at nine point six percent base capability, awaiting further orders." "Enemy unit destroyed. I have sustained extensive damage, but am still operational at nine point six percent base capability, awaiting further orders."

"Hey," Blauvelt said. "That doesn't sound like ..."

"Now maybe you understand that this is a Bolo combat unit, not the village idiot," Crewe snapped. He picked his way across the churned-up ground, stood before the great machine.

"Mission accomplished, Unit Nine five four," he called. "Enemy forces neutralized. Close out Battle Reflex and revert to low alert status." He turned to Blauvelt.

"Let's go back to town," he said, "and tell them what their mascot just did."

Blauvelt stared up at the grim and ancient machine; his square, tanned face looked yellowish and drawn. "Let's do that," he said.

The ten-piece town band was drawn up in a double rank before the newly mown village square. The entire population of the settlement-some three hundred and forty-two men, women and children-were present, dressed in their best. Pennants fluttered from strung wires. The sun glistened from the armored sides of the newly-cleaned and polished Bolo. A vast bouquet of wild flowers poked from the no-longer-sooty muzzle of the h.e.l.lbore.

Crewe stepped forward.

"As a representative of the Concordiat government I've been asked to make this presentation," he said. "You people have seen fit to design a medal and award it to Unit Nine five four in appreciation for services rendered in defense of the community above and beyond the call of duty." He paused, looked across the faces of his audience.

"Many more elaborate honors have been awarded for a great deal less," he said. He turned to the machine; two men came forward, one with a stepladder, the other with a portable welding rig. Crewe climbed up, fixed the newly struck decoration in place beside the row of century-old battle honors. The technician quickly spotted it in position. The crowd cheered, then dispersed, chattering, to the picnic tables set up in the village street.

It was late twilight. The last of the sandwiches and stuffed eggs had been eaten, the last speeches declaimed, the last keg broached. Crewe sat with a few of the men in the town's lone public house.

"To Bobby," a man raised his gla.s.s.

"Correction," Crewe said. "To Unit Nine five four of the Line." The men laughed and drank.

"Well, time to go, I guess," a man said. The others chimed in, rose, clattering chairs. As the last of them left, Blauvelt came in. He sat down across from Crewe.

"You, ah, staying the night?" he asked.

"I thought I'd drive back," Crewe said. "My business here is finished."

"Is it?" Blauvelt said tensely.

Crewe looked at him, waiting.

"You know what you've got to do, Crewe."

"Do I?" Crewe took a sip from his gla.s.s.

"d.a.m.n it, have I got to spell it out? As long as that machine was just an oversized half-wit, it was all right. Kind of a monument to the war, and all. But now I've seen what it can do ... Crewe, we can't have a live killer sitting in the middle of our town-never knowing when it might take a notion to start shooting again!"

"Finished?" Crewe asked.

"It's not that we're not grateful-"

"Get out," Crewe said.

"Now, look here, Crewe-"

"Get out. And keep everyone away from Bobby, understand?"

"Does that mean-?"

"I'll take care of it."

Blauvelt got to his feet. "Yeah," he said. "Sure."

After Blauvelt left, Crewe rose and dropped a bill on the table; he picked the command transmitter from the floor, went out into the street. Faint cries came from the far end of the town, where the crowd had gathered for fireworks. A yellow rocket arced up, burst in a spray of golden light, falling, fading ...

Crewe walked toward the plaza. The Bolo loomed up, a vast, black shadow against the star-thick sky. Crewe stood before it, looking up at the already draggled pennants, the wilted nosegay drooping from the gun muzzle.

"Unit Nine five four, you know why I'm here?" he said softly.

"I compute that my usefulness as an engine of war is ended," the soft rasping voice said. the soft rasping voice said.

"That's right," Crewe said. "I checked the area in a thousand-mile radius with sensitive instruments. There's no enemy machine left alive. The one you killed was the last."

"It was true to its duty," the machine said. the machine said.

"It was my fault," Crewe said. "It was designed to detect our command carrier and home on it. When I switched on my transmitter, it went into action. Naturally, you sensed that, and went to meet it."

The machine sat silent.

"You could still save yourself," Crewe said. "If you trampled me under and made for the jungle it might be centuries before ..."

"Before another man comes to do what must be done? Better that I cease now, at the hands of a friend."

"Good-bye, Bobby."

"Correction: Unit Nine five four of the Line."

Crewe pressed the key. A sense of darkness fell across the machine.

At the edge of the square, Crewe looked back. He raised a hand in a ghostly salute; then he walked away along the dusty street, white in the light of the rising moon.

I once asked Keith whether his varied military service had included a tour in an armored unit. He a.s.sured me his only contact with tanks had been in basic training during WW II, when he was required to lie in a slit trench while a tank drove over him to demonstrate to the trainees that you had a better chance of surviving being overrun by tanks if you lay still than if you jumped out of your foxholes and became a target for their machine guns.

He got the feeling, the presence, presence, of tanks very well, though. I note, however, that the three Bolo stories which I consider exceptionally better than the rest aren't really about tanks: they're about veterans who happen to be tanks. of tanks very well, though. I note, however, that the three Bolo stories which I consider exceptionally better than the rest aren't really about tanks: they're about veterans who happen to be tanks.

-DAD.

Basic Training Mark L. Van Name Week 1, Day 1 I knew I wasn't supposed to look anywhere but straight ahead, but I wanted to check down the road to my right, to see if Mom was still there. After she dropped me off everything happened so fast that I didn't even know if she had left yet or if she was still watching me. I sorta wanted her to watch me, but I sorta didn't, because she had started crying when the men yelled at me to get in line, and that had made me feel like crying and I knew I shouldn't cry. Daddy taught me that. Men don't cry. Now that he was gone I was supposed to be the man. knew I wasn't supposed to look anywhere but straight ahead, but I wanted to check down the road to my right, to see if Mom was still there. After she dropped me off everything happened so fast that I didn't even know if she had left yet or if she was still watching me. I sorta wanted her to watch me, but I sorta didn't, because she had started crying when the men yelled at me to get in line, and that had made me feel like crying and I knew I shouldn't cry. Daddy taught me that. Men don't cry. Now that he was gone I was supposed to be the man.

But I still wanted to see her, and Sergeant Minola sounded like he was yelling at some kid at the other end of the line, so I turned and looked.

She was gone. I couldn't even see her car, and that made me mad and it made me want to cry and I wished she was still there.

Then he was screaming in my ear, and it all happened so fast that I couldn't tell what he said at first even though his voice was loud.

"... some kind of hearing problem, Private?" He yelled louder. "Is my voice not clear enough for you?"

"No, sir!"

All of a sudden he was right in front of me, leaning into my face.

"Do I look like I sit around the office all day, playing pocket pool and having lunch at some air-conditioned officers' club?"

His face was the color of old cardboard and looked as hard as wood. The muscles in his neck and his arms stood out as he leaned over me, and I could not imagine him ever sitting around. "No, sir!"

"Then stop calling me sir! I work for a living, boy. You call me Sergeant! Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"No wonder you have a hearing problem, Private. You don't talk loud enough to wake an ant sleeping on your lips." He stood up and backed away. "Now, do you understand me?"

I yelled as loud as I could, "Yes, Sergeant!" I was so scared my hands were shaking. The noon sun was so hot I was drenched with sweat, and I felt like I was going to throw up. I didn't want him to see any of it, I didn't want him to keep yelling at me, I didn't want to be there. It wasn't fair. None of the other boys I knew had to join, none of their fathers had died in this stupid war and made them have to become soldiers.

"What's your name, Private?"

"Larry, sir, uh, Sergeant."

"You don't get it, do you, boy?" He leaned again into my face. I could see the hairs in his nose and tiny scars like craters on his cheeks. "I don't give a rat's a.s.s what your first name is. I don't care who you were or what you were back in that sorry excuse for a world that brought your sorry excuse for a recruit a.s.s to me. What you are now is a private in my corps. Your first name is 'Private,' and your last name is something I'm only going to learn because I have to have some way to refer to your worthless self. Now, what is it, Private? What's your name?"

I wished he would stop yelling at me. It made it hard for me to talk, to think, even to stand there. I had to work my throat so I could talk. "Private Burger, Sergeant."

"Burger, huh? You some kind of cheap sandwich I'm gonna chew on, get sick, and spit out like those cheap rat burgers they sell across the bridge in Tampa? Is that what you are, boy?"

I didn't want to get mad, but he kept screaming at me and so I yelled back, "No, Sergeant!"

He nodded, stepped back, and walked to the center of the boys to my left. I could barely see him out of the corner of my eye.

"Let's get some things straight here," he said. "None of you like me, and I don't like you. I normally wouldn't cross the street to p.i.s.s on worthless punks like you if you were on fire. But you are no longer just punks. You are part of my militia, and you are mine. You may have had mommies and daddies once, but now all you have is me and each other, and none of you is worth a d.a.m.n without me. I am your world, the last thing you'll see before your miserable bodies fall asleep at night and the first thing you'll see when I drag you out of your bunks in the morning. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Sergeant!" We all yelled, and the sound was so loud I almost jumped.

"I can't hear you!"

I took a deep breath and screamed as loud as I could. "Yes, Sergeant!" We didn't all finish at the same time, but it was close enough that the noise was amazing.