Galen urged his driver on, guiding him to the bank. The track did a sideways power-slide, then backed snug up against the front door. The driver dropped his ramp right through the entrance, smashing the building’s door open so the troops could dismount under cover.
“Fight your way to the roof and take the NVGs with you, first team,” ordered Galen. “Let’s go clear the street, driver.”
Track two circled the bank, Galen firing a burst of heavy machine gun fire at a group of twenty hatchet and axe wielding street punks as he rounded the first corner. Half of them fell, the rest scattered. The driver ran over some of the bodies as he sped along the side street to reach the next corner. Behind it was a hothead with a submachine gun, firing as the vehicle approached. Galen ducked down in the hatch to avoid being shot, then stood up and looked behind. The enemy shooter was a bloody pulp, run over by the APC.
The next street was clear but after his track pulled into the alley behind the bank, Galen saw an enemy machine gun crew set up about two hundred meters away. They were hastily turning their weapon to bear on his track. Galen fired, working his stream of bullets into the target. He continued firing even after the three enemy troops fell. He scored two dozen hits on their machine gun, ruining it. A sudden wash of heat spread across his left side, then a jarring shudder as his track was pushed sideways half a meter. Galen looked left and saw a shadowy figure scurrying off, carrying a missile launcher. Galen chased him with machine gun fire but just missed.
“Fire teams, you up yet?”
“Check.” An affirmative response.
“Punk with a missile launcher, south of you. Talk me in.”
“Roger, switching to infrared.”
“Park it driver, I’m going to get that punk,” said Galen.
“Good luck.” The driver left his seat and climbed behind the heavy machine gun. Galen dismounted and drew his pistol, headed to where he last saw the missile gunner.
“Building ahead, second floor. He’s alone. Should I take him out from here?” asked the first team leader, “I’d only be shooting through a single pane of glass and a curtain.”
Galen considered for a moment, “No, he’s mine. If I get whacked he’s all yours. Keep me covered.”
Galen entered the first floor of the drugstore, found the stairs and started to climb. “Talk to me, can he hit me at the top of the stairwell?”
“Yes. Let me bag him, Sergeant. If he nails you with a missile it’ll make a nasty mess. Probably set the drugstore on fire.”
“You have your orders. Let me do this.” Galen came to the halfway point of the steps. He could see the ceiling of the next floor. Not a sound came from inside. His eyes were just starting to get adjusted to the dark and street lamps outside shined light through the windows lining the walls along the left and right sides of the building. “How far is he from the top of the stairs?”
“Twenty meters, hiding behind a stack of boxes along the back wall.”
“Good.”
Galen ascended another step. He could see the top of the far wall now. He concentrated, focusing his thoughts. Then he crouched, easing up the steps. When he could creep no further, he charged. The enemy reacted quickly, aiming his missile launcher at the charging mercenary. Before his enemy’s brain could cause his finger to press the fire button, Galen veered right. Galen continued running, spun left and leaped over the stack of boxes the enemy stood behind. He put a boot right in the man’s chest, knocking him flat on his back. The launcher flew out of his hands and clattered on the floor. Galen straddled the man, shoving a knee into each of his biceps.
“You shot my track, you punk!”
The enemy stared at Galen in terror, his face distorted and ugly. Wide eyes and a silent scream. Galen hated him for being such a pitiful creature.
“You ain’t such a bad ass now, face to face, are you, punk?” Galen cocked his left hand all the way back and punched him in the face. The blow knocked the punk senseless. Galen paused, stood and dusted himself off, brushing away the dirty feeling that came from touching such a pitiful and cowardly creature. After his rage subsided and his breathing slowed to normal, Galen called his troops, “All secure. Team three, come get this EPW and put him in the track.”
Team one leader came on and said, “I still don’t see why you didn’t let me bag him.”
“He shot my track, so I want him to explain to our interrogators where he got the missile launcher. A fate worse than death.”
Galen waited for his troops to collect the prisoner and then called the Corporal, “All done with my objective. Can we go now?”
“I got to get clearance from higher, then wait for the cops to relieve us. We’ll be on our way in half an hour. What’s your ACE?”
“Ammunition, we used about one clip of ammo per troop and I fired about two hundred rounds of trail mix. Casualties, I have one troop in team two with a broken arm. Also, twenty seven enemy dead bodies. Equipment, we have it all plus a captured missile launcher. The track is damaged but drivable. We also have a prisoner.”
“Good job. Keep your sector clear until the cops get here,” said the Corporal.
Galen liked getting praise from his commander, even if he was just a Corporal. That Corporal knew what he was doing, leading a successful assault to reclaim an unruly town taken over by trouble makers. Galen was also pleased with himself. His combat training from the academy taught him skills that worked in battle. It gave him confidence not only in the skills had just used, but in everything else he knew about war fighting. His leadership training let him know it was time to pass on some praise to his troops.
“Team leaders, good job. Best troops I ever led in combat,” The only troops he ever led in combat, but they didn’t know that. He holstered his pistol and climbed back into the APC and took his position behind the twenty millimeter machine gun. The driver got back in his seat and the mercenaries waited for the Mandarin police to arrive.
Chapter Six
They came, riding rickety cargo trucks driven by skinny, scruffy little men. The police were a motley crew, wearing civilian clothes mixed with their uniforms. It took nearly two hundred of them to secure the same area held by the thirty mercenaries. Their leader, the only cop dressed in a complete uniform, approached the Corporal.
“We understand you have a prisoner.”
“A prisoner of war taken under fire during combat operations. He’s a POW, not a criminal,” said the Corporal.
“Understood. I just want to see him, maybe I know him.”
“Okay, but no pictures and no talking. Just look.”
The police chief glanced into track two and saw the prisoner sitting with his left wrist handcuffed to his right ankle and his right wrist handcuffed to his left ankle.
“He’s quite a catch. An off-planet revolutionary terrorists. Should get you mercs quite a ransom.”
“Oh, we don’t expect much out of his people,” said the Corporal.
“I mean the Confederation. They’ll want to make a public spectacle of his trial and execution.”
“But that’s none of our business. We’ll just do our job, follow our orders.”
“Yes,” said the police chief. “That’s all it is to you mercenaries, just a job. Policemen actually care about right and wrong, about law and justice.”
“See you around, officer,” said the Corporal. “Panzer Grenadiers, mount up!”
The eastern sky was starting to glow with the same orange color of yesterday’s sunset. The sun was full in the sky when the convoy reached its destination, the combined-arms company headquarters. Galen checked his wrist, his personal communicator strapped to it: six twenty two in the morning. The men dismounted and the Corporal was met by the company commander, a Lieutenant.