They came to the head of the column and sat down in a circle with Chief Mortinson, Spike and Haas. Soon all five of them had their boots off. Haas and Mortinson were just airing their feet but Tad, Galen and Spike were draining blisters.
“Radio listening silence from now on, until you hear different, either from me or Spike or higher. Have all your troops shut off their microphones and switch to command voice.”
They knew why. Radio transmissions could be detected by enemy sensors. However, the mercenaries could yell at each other without being heard by crews inside tanks.
“Regular infantry from Charlie and Bravo Company have cleared the area of enemy dismounts and have put a perimeter around it. But the perimeter is spread thin so there may be a handful of enemy grunts that cold have snuck back in there. If you meet some, attack them immediately and fight to the death. With them and the tanks together, you’re dead meat anyway so you might as well make the most of it.”
Chief Mortinson paused to let his words sink in. “We’re going to link up with second platoon and board their three skimmers. They’ll take us to battalion where we’ll pick up some flamers, one for each troop. Then the skimmers will shuttle us around the area so we can set up our ambush. At about zero two hundred, we go to ground and wait.”
Former Lance Sergeant Ching, the self-appointed rebel leader, looked at himself one last time to check his reflection in the mirror to make sure everything was perfect. His brown worker’s jump suit was new, starched and pressed. His hair was neatly trimmed and held in place by styling spray. His thin moustache and goatee beard added a vicious look to his Mandarin features. Although he was only a hundred and sixty centimeters tall, he looked menacing. He had to. He was leading the tank company of the revolution. The clock on the wall said it was midnight, time to go.
Ching stepped from his office into the conference room. The management scum who used to inhabit this part of the tank factory were safely locked away in the local jail.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Glad you all came.”
Eleven men qualified to command tanks looked at him and said “Good morning, Lance Sergeant.”
“We’ll make an aggressive maneuver this morning. I hope we are all up to it. Any questions?”
Eleven Lance Corporals. Not real soldiers, not real tankers, but they would do.
“Yes, I have a question,” asked a tank commander. He was old but his qualifications as a former tank commander overshadowed the shortcoming of old age. So what if he had been dishonorably discharged from the Confederation’s regular army?
“Speak,” said Lance Sergeant Ching.
“Why are we doing this?”
“We do this to make a better life for ourselves and our children and to throw off the oppressive hand of the Confederation. We do this to get better working conditions for our laborers. We want to enjoy more of the fruits of our labors. We also want to have more control over the tanks we build; we want to raise the quality of our craftsmanship so we can have more pride in our work and ourselves. We want control over our local affairs, over the schools our children attend, control of…”
“Not that,” interrupted the old Lance Corporal, “we’re with you on that, brother. I’m asking about this morning’s attack. What do we stand to accomplish?”
“Time. We will buy time. It won’t be long before the Confederation police and military forces come to stamp out our rebellion. They act quickly, but the civil government moves slowly. We must keep the rebellion alive long enough for the politicians to take notice. Our march today will hamper the counterattack of the regular military. By moving west down the valley and taking control of transportation facilities in the seaport city of Chon Gok Op, we will delay our enemy. Perhaps it will slow them down by two or three weeks. That should be enough time to buy us a seat at the bargaining table. Then our leaders can negotiate to get many of our demands met.”
The hodgepodge group of pseudo-tankers looked good enough. Their new jumpsuits had proper insignia and patches on them. A lifetime of hard work made them strong enough. They had enough time in the factory’s battle simulator to make them effective on the field of battle. Ching looked at them again. All the years he spent working in the factory had paid off. He would finally realize his life-long dream of leading a company of tanks in battle. If the Confederation had not thrown him out of the Mandarin Armor Academy, they could have spared themselves all this trouble. No matter, Ching would get his revenge.
“Let’s go!”
The worker-warriors left the conference room and boarded their war machines. This mission would be a one-way trip. Ching would carry the campaign well past its objective. He would march on, alone if he had to, until he reached the planetary capitol. Or until he was killed, the more likely result of the campaign. Regardless, Ching had no intention of living if he lost. Life was too unbearable for him under the Confederation. Change had to come, or else. He locked his cupola shut and performed the startup sequence of his tank. Lights and indicators blinked and glowed. He watched the countdown for the main gun’s gyro stabilization as it blinked with each changing number. Two minutes to go.
“Command lance, check in,” said Ching.
“One, ready in three.”
“Two, ready in two.”
“Three, ready in two.”
“First, are you ready?”
“In three,” said the old Lance Corporal.
“Second?” asked Ching.
“Give me three.” Second lance was led by a former shop foreman. He drove tanks from the main plant to the final de-processing plant for twenty years, before he was promoted to foreman. His gunnery skills were somewhat lacking, but he could hold his own against most of the revolution’s tank commanders. Ching waited a full five minutes. All the blinking lights and indicators calmed down and showed a green status. All the gauges had their needles pointing straight up, a normal reading. The distinctive smell of fresh solder, welding and paint made Ching feel good. Let history say what it will about his company, but at least his troops had experienced the smell of brand new tanks.
“Follow me.”
Ching led the way. The other three light tanks of the command lance were right behind him. First lance followed, with second lance in the rear. The twelve Wasps moved in a column, rolling out of the factory and through the surrounding town. Well-wishers and gawkers lined the streets to cheer on their heroes. Ching wondered why they were there in the middle of the night.
He turned on the external loud speakers of his Wasp. “People of the revolution, we will smite our enemies. Do not lose faith in our dream, no matter what happens. We will prevail.”
His bravado earned him cheers from the crowd, loud enough for him to hear inside the turret. When the last Wasp was clear of the town, he ordered the Wasp behind him to take the lead. The column accelerated to full speed and Ching challenged his troops to keep up. They did. If there was one thing they needed to do, it was move. Time was of the essence.
“What the hell is that?” asked Galen. He stood on a hilltop and peered through his NVGs.
“Let me see,” Chief Mortinson snatched the goggles from Galen and peered into the dark. “Where?”
“Almost due east, sixty klicks away. On the highway by the river.”
“Oh, I think it’s a dozen dumbass Hornets moving down the road at full speed; we’ve got about forty five minutes to switch to plan B.” Plan A had already undergone about fifty changes. Galen didn’t even know a plan B existed.
“What’s plan B?”
“We spread out by the road and lay some charges. We hit ‘em hard, knock off what we can. Then we just play it by ear.” Mortinson thought for a moment then said, “What are you dumbass Sergeants waiting for? Round up your troops and have them ready to mount up on the skimmers. Converge on point six, that’s where they’ll pick you up.”