“Central, Central, this is Echo-Three-Five. Fire mission, over.”
“Echo-Three-Five, this is Central, call fire.”
Better. “Central, Central, fire concentration, Echo-Two, say again, Echo-Two.”
There was another pause. Fire was building on the line, but these Posleen seemed to be the equivalent of scouts and there had yet to be a call for a medic. He waited a moment longer then called again.
“Central, Central, this is Echo-Three-Five. Say status fire mission, over.”
“Echo-Three-Five, no fire mission in status, over.”
“What?!” he shouted and stared at the radio in his foxhole. His RTO looked around, puzzled.
“What’s wrong, sir?”
“The—” He realized a need to maintain a calm demeanor. Even if the one ace he thought he had in a hole was starting to look like a deuce. “I’m having a little trouble with the artillery net, I keep getting stepped on.” It was a bald-faced lie, but better than the truth.
He had used Central several times in Exercise Without Troops, map exercises and field problems and it had never shown a bit of problem, once you got used to the syntax. The system had been designed by the Advanced Technology Research Board, a board formed in reaction to the “GalTech” group, and was the brainchild of the former Ground Forces High Commander.
As a concept it was deceptively simple; rather than having fallible humans make numerous transmissions in the call for fire chain, let computers do the work. Practically “off-the-shelf” voice-recognition software would “recognize” calls for fire, given by authenticated individuals and in the proper form, register them and pass them to a central computer. The computer would determine priorities, make the fire calculations and both send out fire commands and update the units calling for fire on the status of their request.
Combined with the Inter Vehicle Information System and the Ground Tactical Positioning System, it would eliminate “blue on blue” or “friendly” fire and distribute the available fire more equitably and efficiently. As a salve to the technological nay-sayers, there were both system overrides that commanders could invoke and real human beings in the chain. And it was just about time to invoke one.
He poked his head up to get a look at the situation and called again. “Central, Central, this is Echo-Three-Five. Final protective fire, I say again, final protective fire. Command override, priority one. Over.”
Nothing.
“Sir?” said his RTO, as the first medic cry came from Second platoon, “where’s the artillery?” One of the medics in the next foxhole crawled out towards the line, just as a centaur group broke through the firelanes and into view. Shotgun rounds flailed the foxholes, momentarily suppressing the company’s fire and smashing the luckless medic into red paste. Captain Brantley dropped back into the foxhole just as the radio crackled back into life.
“Echo-Three-Five, authenticate Whiskey-Tango.”
I already did that! The captain dug into his rucksack and dragged out his ANCD. “Victor! Over!”
“Say, again, syntax not recognized, over.”
“Central, this is Echo-Three-Five, authentication Victor, over.” He ground his teeth, seemingly drawing patience out of the air.
“Echo-Three-Five, say again full callsign, over.”
“Juliet-Mike-Echo-Three-Five,” he said, very slowly and carefully.
“Juliet-Mike-Echo-Three-Five, welcome to the net, say request, over.”
“Central, this is Echo-Three-Five, fire mission, over.”
“Echo-Three-Five, call fire, over.”
“Central, this is Echo-Three-Five, fire mission, concentration Echo…” He popped his head up and took a quick look towards the front. The Posleen had begun to thicken, their fire beating down the company’s with the exception of the manjacks. As he watched, a God King plasma cannon removed one of those, reducing the fire pressure. A lane was being cleared through the minefield by the simple expedient of pushing the Posleen normals through it. He saw two blown up in the brief span he was up but there were thousands behind them, a mass of yellow centaurs so great they were pushing down the trees, turning the forest into a plain.
“Fire mission, concentration Echo-One. Final Protective Fire, priority one. Say again, FPF, Echo-One, Priority One, over.”
There was a brief pause and panic set in as he feared he would have to start over from the beginning. There was no time.
“Echo-Three-Five, this is Central. FPF on the way. Splash in two-five seconds. One hundred rounds.”
Captain Brantley switched to the platoon local net. “All Echo units, all Echo units, final protective fire, One-Five-Five close. Twenty seconds! Incoming!” He clamped his hands over his ears, hunkered down and smiled at the RTO. “Here it comes! Better late than never!”
“Yes, sir!” shouted the RTO, quickly stuffing earplugs in and dropping into the hole. The captain noticed that his Kevlar helmet had a furrow across the left-hand side. Good troop, he thought.
The commander was still smiling when the first 155mm round dropped in his hole.
“Juliet One-Five, Juliet One-Five, this is Whiskey One-Five, over!”
Keren turned from the fire control computer and picked up the microphone. The rumbling impact of heavy artillery to the front had been going on for nearly two minutes, meaning that the captain must have called for Final Protective Fire, but there had not been a command over the net for fire from the mortars. Now Third platoon was calling and he still could find no request for fire. At least the L-T had sent Sergeant Herd off to recon their secondary firing position. Maybe if they gave him an hour or two he could be ready to lay in the guns.
“Whiskey One-Five, this is Juliet One-Five Papa, go ahead.”
“Juliet, we’re getting pounded by this goddamn artillery! The fuckin’ CP is gone and so is Second platoon. It’s got the horses stopped, but it’s killin’ us! Get ’em to stop! We can’t reach anybody!”
Oh, Jesus. Keren used his free hand to wave at the platoon sergeant and lieutenant, talking quietly by the Three Track. “Whiskey, sorry, confirm friendly-fire call!”
“Yes, confirm damnit! Blue fire! Blue fire!”
Keren swung around and keyed the Central Fire Net. “Central, Central, blue on blue! Say again, blue on blue! Check fire! Check fire!” At his shouts, every head in sight turned towards him and the two leaders started running towards his track.
“This is Central, to calling station, say callsign and authenticate.”
“Central, this is Juliet One-Five, check fire for Echo-Three-Five, say again, check fire, check fire, blue on blue, check fire.” He waited for a response as the thunder of artillery in the distance and the express train rumble overhead continued. A checkfire for “friendly-fire” was supposed to occur immediately, then authenticate. The cumbersome authentication problem was programmed to occur after friendly artillery stopped killing human troops.
“Juliet One-Five, authenticate Alpha Sierra.”
Shit. Fuck this. Something was obviously screwy with Central, he should not even have had to state his callsign. He punched numbers on his ANCD. Since it was for a fire direction track, it held all the “phone numbers” for the entire division. The platoon leader started to reach for the ANCD and stepped back at the involuntary feral snarl that crossed the specialist’s face.