David Drake - Hammer's Slammers 15 - Grimmer Than Hell

Grimmer Than Hell

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

Coming Home by the Long Way

RESCUE MISSION

A Story of The Fleet

WHEN THE DEVIL DRIVES

A Story of The Fleet

TEAM EFFORT

A Story of The Fleet

THE END

A Story of The Fleet

SMASH AND GRAB

A Story of The Fleet

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

A Story of The Fleet

FACING THE ENEMY

FAILURE MODE

THE TRADESMEN

COMING UP AGAINST IT

WITH THE SWORD HE MUST BE SLAIN

NATION WITHOUT WALLS

THE PREDATORS

UNDERGROUND

Grimmer Than Hell

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David Drake

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

printed inDestinies , Vol. 2, No. 1 (Feb.–March 1980).

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-3590-7

Cover art by Steve Hickman

First printing, February 2003

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Drake, David.

Grimmer than hell / by David Drake.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-7434-3590-7

1. Science fiction, American. 2. Life on other planets—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3554.R196 G75 2003

813'.0876208—dc21

2002034194

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

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1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Produced by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

For Edmund D. Livingston, Sr.

Ed was proud to have served as a Marine rifleman on

Okinawa and been part of the unit which landed in

Yokosuka—without ammunition—two days before the

Japanese surrender.

I'm equally proud to have been his friend in later years.

BAEN BOOKS by DAVID DRAKE

Hammer's Slammers

The Tank Lords

Caught in the Crossfire

The Butcher's Bill

The Sharp End

Paying the Piper

RCN series

With the Lightnings

Lt. Leary, Commanding

Independent Novels and Collections

Seas of Venus

Foreign Legions,edited by David Drake

Ranks of Bronze

Cross the Stars

The Dragon Lord

Birds of Prey

Northworld Trilogy

Redliners

Starliner

All the Way to the Gallows

Grimmer Than Hell

The Undesired Princess and The Enchanted Bunny

(with L. Sprague de Camp)

Lest Darkness Fall and To Bring the Light

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(with L. Sprague de Camp)

Armageddon

(edited with Billie Sue Mosiman)

Killer

(with Karl Edward Wagner)

The General series:

Warlord,with S.M. Stirling (omnibus)

Conqueror,with S.M. Stirling (forthcoming)

The Forge,with S.M. Stirling

The Chosen,with S.M. Stirling

The Reformer,with S.M. Stirling

The Tyrant,with Eric Flint

The Belisarius series:

(with Eric Flint)

An Oblique Approach

In the Heart of Darkness

Destiny's Shield

Fortune's Stroke

The Tide of Victory

INTRODUCTION

Coming Home by the Long

Way

A few years ago I collected my humorous stories inAll the Way to the Gallows . In my introduction I

admitted that I wasn't best known for writing humor.

This is what I'm best known for writing.

The impetus for this book was a fan suggestion that with surveillance cameras becoming increasingly

prevalent all over the world, it would be a good time to get the Lacey stories back in print. I thought

about the notion.

I only did three stories in the series, in the late '70s. Lacey is a man with all the ordinary human

feelings—which he suppresses ruthlessly, as he suppresses everything else that might prevent him from

accomplishing his task. He has no goals, no dreams, no friends; but he's very, very good at his job.

A friend once suggested that the Lacey stories were even clearer descriptions of how I felt about Viet

Nam and what I'd become there than the Hammer stories I was writing at the same time. She may have

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been right.

I don't want to get back into that mindset, but neither did I want to turn the setting into a shared universe.

Lacey is, if you'll forgive me, a more personal Hell than that.

The original collection,Lacey and His Friends (with an absolutely wonderful Steve Hickman cover, by

the way), bound in a couple novellas which showed the kinder, gentler, David Drake. Thereis a kinder,

gentler David Drake; but I'm not as defensive as I used to be about the other parts of me, and they're

real too.

The remaining pieces in the present collection are close in tone to the Lacey stories. They're military SF

of one sort or another, though "or another" covers a pretty wide range.

Three are odd-balls. Billie Sue Mosiman and I edited an original anthology titled (and about)

Armageddon . I wrote "With the Sword He Must Be Slain" for that volume.

Steve Stirling's Draka series is set in an alternate universe in which Evil wins. Steve turned the setting into

a shared universe with the volumeDrakas! and asked me to contribute.

Evil doesn't win in my books (well, I'll admit it's sometimes hard to pick the good guys) and I was a little

uncomfortable with the assignment, but Steve's a friend and has written stories for me. If I'd known he

wasn't going to do a story for his own collection, I might have begged off; but I didn't, and "The

Tradesmen"resulted. It has a very dense structure, so much so that my outline amounted to 60% of the

wordage of the finished story. As a piece of craftsmanship, I'm proud of it.

"Coming Up Against It"had a very strange genesis. Bill Fawcett got a deal for the two of us to consult on

backgrounds for a computer game, for which we'd be paid an absurdly large amount of money. Part of

the deal was that I would write a story in the game universe for binding in with the game. I wrote the

story.

We did commentary on the initial background and sent it in. The new version came back to us, not a

refinement but a totally new scenario. We did more commentary. The response was yet again a totally

new scenario. I don't recall how many iterations we went through on this, but I do remember that I was

getting steamed. (I later heard the rumor that somebody in the company was keeping the meter running

as a favor to the outside contractor doing the scenarios, a buddy who'd fallen on hard times.)

My story, "Coming Up Against It," was based on a situation that was edited out of the game early in the

process. I didn't even think I had a copy of the story (I'd tried to put the whole business out of my head;

I wasreally angry about being dicked around), but it showed up while I was searching for other things. It

appears here for the first time.

And by the way, this is a prime example of a deal that was too good to be true turning out to be too

good to be true.

Bill Fawcett sold the Battlestation shared universe with me as co-editor. I'd been doing a lot of work in

shared universes by that time, and I decided that the two volumes of the original contract would be my

last for a while. I wrote my two stories, "Facing the Enemy" and "Failure Mode," so that they'd give

closure to the series. You don't ordinarily get that with life, but it's something I strive for in fiction.

And that brings me very directly to the six stories which open this volume. They come from a slightly

earlier shared universe that Bill developed and I co-edited: The Fleet. They follow a special operations

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company in a future war against aliens. (Parenthetically, most of my Military SF doesn't involve aliens;

possibly because I don't recall ever being shot at by an alien when I was in Viet Nam or Cambodia.)

Each story is self-standing but they have a cumulative effect and are, I believe, some of the best Military

SF I've written.

What the Fleet storiesdon't have is closure; that too, I think, has something to do with me and Southeast

Asia. The series ended and I thought I'd walked away from it, just as I thought I'd walked away from a

lot of other things back in 1971.

Then, years later, I wroteRedliners , a novel about a special operations company fighting aliens until

things went badly wrong . . . except that inRedliners they got a second chance. Theyand their society

got a second chance. They got closure, and in a funny way so did I. SinceRedliners I've been able to

write adventure fiction that's a little less cynical, a little less bleak, than what I'd invariably done in the past

when I wrote action stories.

I don't think I'd have been able to writeRedliners if I hadn't previously written the Fleet stories. I'm

awfully glad I did write them.

Dave Drake

david-drake.com

RESCUE MISSION

A Story of The Fleet

"Is it true," demanded one of the First Platoon corporals in a voice that filled the echoing bay of the

landing craft, "that this whole operation is so we can rescue Admiral Mayne's nephew from the

Khalians?"

Captain Kowacs looked at the man. The corporal stared back at the company commander with a jaunty

arrogance that said,Whatcha gonna do? Put me on point?

Which of course was the corporal's normal patrolposition.

Kowacs took a deep breath, but you learned real fast in a Marine Reaction Company that you couldn't

scare your troops with rear-echelon discipline. Trying to do that would guarantee you were the first

casualty of the next firefight.

"No, Corporal Dodd," said Kowacs. "Admiral Mayne is planning coordinator for this mission, but

neither he nor any nephews of his have anything behind-the-scenes to do with it."

He glared at his assembled company.

The behind-the-scenes order had come from Grand Admiral Forberry; and it was Forberry's son, not a

nephew, who'd been snatched—no body recovered, at any rate—when the Khalians raided the Pleasure

Dome on Iknaton five years before.

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Nobody else spoke up; even Dodd looked abashed.

Kowacs gazed at the hundred and three pairs of waiting eyes—wondered how many of them would

have any life behind them in twenty-four hours—

Sighed and thumbed the handset controlling the holo projector.

The image that formed above Kowacs' head was fuzzy. The unit was intended for use in a shielded

environment, while the bay of the landing shipBonnie Parker was alive with circuits and charged metal.

No matter: this was the 121stMarine Reaction Company, not an architectural congress. The projector

would do for the job.

"Fleet Intelligence believes this site to be the Khalians' major holding facility for human prisoners on

Target," Kowacs said, referencing the hologram with a nod. "Their slave pen. Reconnaissance indicates

that slave ships land at a pad three kilometers distant—"

A second hologram bloomed briefly, the scale of distance merging it with one wall of the big room.

"—and their cargoes are carried to the holding facility by air trucks which touch down on the roof of the

Administration Building," Kowacs continued as the image of the outlying spaceport disappeared. The

building in the center of the main hologram brightened and began to rotate in three dimensions while the

Marines squinted.

"Based on analysis of captured Khalian structures," Kowacs said, "Intelligence believes the building is an

integral polyborate casting, probably of two above-ground levels—"

"That high and the weasels only got two floors?" demanded a sergeant from the Heavy Weapons

platoon. She was concerned, not gibing like Dodd earlier. "Them little bastards, theylike low ceilings."

"Good point, Sergeant Rozelle," Kowacs said, as if he liked to be interrupted . . . but soldiers who were

too dumb to think for themselves were too dumb to trust with your life in a reaction company.

"Intelligence believes the building is scaled to the needs of human—slave—intake. But there aren't any

windows, and there may well be a third level inside."

Kowacs cleared his throat. Before any of the half dozen Marines poised with further questions could

interrupt again, he continued, "The walls and roof are rigid enough to withstand considerable stress, but

they're apt to shatter once their integrity is breached. Intelligence believes that strip charges will hole them

and that plasma bolts should crumble sections large enough for easy entry."

Almost the entire complement of the 121stwas veteran. Even the scattering of newbies were aware that

Fleet Intelligence believed a lot of things—but all Fleet Intelligence knew for sure was that no analyst's

butt was going to be on the line if his belief were false.

"The admin building is separated from the camp proper by double fences with a fifteen meters between

them," Kowacs continued as the hologram of the building froze and that of the fenced area brightened in

turn. "The intermediate separation is believed to be mined and is swept by automatic weapons sited on

the building's roof coping. The fence may be electrified."

Marines nodded, easy in the knowledge that barriers impassible to a bunch of unarmed civilians were

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going to be a piece of cake tothem .

The forty-eight buildings splayed like a double row of spokes around the hub of the admin building,

twelve and thirty-six, brightened as the hologram fence dimmed.

"Beyond that are the slave pens and workshops themselves," Kowacs said.

Just for a moment he paused, his mouth half open—prepared speech interrupted by memories of

Khalians and slaves. . . . Memories of his father and mother, dead on Gravely, and his sister's body left

behind two weeks later on LaFarge when the same raider landed to replenish its stock.

Its larder.

"Intelligence doesn't even guess at the structure within the compound," Kowacs forced his tongue to

continue, though it was several moments more before his eyes were focusing again on the Marines. They

were draped over folded bunks and the equipment crated to deploy with them. Some of them looked

back at their captain with vacant expressions that Kowacs knew must mirror his of a moment before.

"There may be guards in the barracks, there may not," he continued thickly, damning the emotion that

clogged his throat and made him less able to do his job—

Of erasing every living weasel from the universe.

"If there are guards, they probably don't have weapons; but most of you know an unarmed Khalian can

still be a dangerous opponent."

"It's still a fucking pelt, too," growled someone from a corner of the bay.

"Yeah, it's that too," Kowacs said in a voice with an edge. "And any Marine taking trophies while there's

still a job to do, I'll take his ears myself. Do you understand?"

The newbies thought that was a threat. The veterans knew it was a promise.

Kowacs took a deep breath and, fully in control of himself and the situation again, continued as the

hologram changed, "The outer perimeter is a double fence again, but with guard towers on the exterior."

The tower images glowed like strung jewels.

"Most of them are automatic weapons," Kowacs said without expression, "but there are rapid-firing

plasma guns—"

Six of the jewels stood out from the rest.

"—for anti-vehicle defense; and there are a pair of missile batteries. Ship-killers."

"Fuckin' A," said Dodd. He wasn't interrupting, just vocalizing what all the Marines in the bay were

thinking right now.

Kowacs included.

"Sir?" asked Sergeant Atwater of Third Platoon, a black Terran who was in line for a slot in the Officer

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Training Unit. "What forces are being committed to this assault?"

"Right," said Kowacs. "TheCarol Ann Fugate and theLadybird Johnson will land as close to the

perimeter as they can. The One-Twenty-second is responsible for the west half—"

That portion of the hologram brightened.

"—and the One-Twenty-third handles the rest. Kamens and Eckland think their companies are nearly as

good as mine—"

The back of Kowacs' mind wore a smile at the scene in Admiral Mayne's office, when he and his fellow

company commanders had been told their assignments.

"—so I guess they'll be able to take care of the job."

"Ah, sir?" said Atwater, his eyes narrowed on the completely-highlighted perimeter of the slave

compound. "Ah—where willwe be?"

"TheBonnie Parker sets down on the roof of the admin building," Kowacs said quietly.

He didn't bother to change the hologram; everyone else in the bay was staring at the face of their

commander, including the platoon leaders who'd already been briefed on the plan. "You're the best there

is in the Fleet, Marines. Anybody doubts you, tell him suck onthat ."

Nobody said anything at all.

"Yeah, well," Kowacs continued after a moment. "Your platoon leaders will give you your individual

assignments in a moment. Ah—"

He looked out over his company. "Ah, I have been ordered to, ah, emphasize to you that the high

command considers Khalian prisoners to be a first priority of all the Target landings, this one included."

He cleared his throat. "Any questions before I turn you over to your platoon leaders?"

"You mean you want us to bring in weaselsalive , Cap'n?" Dodd blurted in amazement.

Beside Dodd sat Sergeant Bradley, who acted as Kowacs' field first—company headquarters, headed

by the Table of Organization 'First Sergeant,' was back on Port Tau Ceti, forwarding supplies, mail, and

replacements to the company. Bradley was a man of middle height; his flesh was drawn so tightly over his

bones that the pink keloid, replacing his hair since a too-near plasma burst, did not appear unusual.

Now he turned to Dodd, lifted the junior non-com's chin between his thumb and forefinger, and said

very distinctly, "Did hesay that, dickhead?"

"No, Sergeant," Dodd whispered.

Bradley faced front with the disdain of a fisherman releasing an undersized catch.

"Any other—"

"Sir?" said Atwater crisply. His arm was lifted but only the index finger was raised, a compromise

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between courtesy and honor. "Will there be some feints to draw off Khalian forces in the area before we

go in?"

Kowacs nodded, but that was a comment on the cogency of the question, not a response to it.

"There's concern," he said carefully, "that when the Khalians realize that we've landed on their

homeworld, their first reaction will be to execute their slaves. Therefore—"

He paused, too clearly aware of the Marines he was leading. This would be a suicide mission if the

general invasion timing were off by an hour, maybe even by a few minutes.

"Therefore," Kowacs continued, "a ground-attack ship will go in ahead of us to prep the defenses.

We—the assault component—will follow at a three-second interval. No other Alliance forces will be

committed to Target until we're on the ground."

"Fuckin' A," somebody repeated in a whisper that echoed throughout the bay.

* * *

Commodore Herennis stood as stiff as if a weasel were buggering him in Kowacs' tiny office—a cubicle

separated from the landing bay by walls of film which blurred light and sound into a semblance of privacy.

Anger wasn't the only emotion holding Grand Admiral Forberry's military secretary rigid—but it was one

of the emotions.

"I told you," said Kowacs from the room's only chair—Herennis had refused it, and there wasn't floor

space for both men to stand—"that while I didn't care to leave my men just now, I would of course obey

a direct order to report to you on the flagship."

He was holding his combat knife toward the striplight in the ceiling; its wire edge was too fine for his

eyes to focus on it, no matter how hard he squinted.

"Youknew I couldn't formally give an order like that!" Herennis snapped.

Kowacs looked up at the smartly-uniformed staff officer—his social, military, and (no doubt) intellectual

superior.

"Yes, Commodore," said the Marine captain softly. "I suppose I did. Now, if you care to state your

business, I'll take care of it the best way I can."

"Yes, I . . . ," Herennis said. His body quivered as embarrassment replaced anger as his ruling emotion.

"Here is the, the chip that was discussed."

The hologram would take up only a corner of the data capacity in the Marines' helmets, nestled among

the sensors and recorders that let the high command look over each man's shoulder after the action.

From a safe distance.

Kowacs set his knife on the fold-down desk that doubled as a keypad when he chose to power up his

computer terminal. He took the holochip from the commodore and inserted it into the bulkhead

projector. The unit was balky; he had to jiggle the handset several times before there was a hum and a

face appeared in the air near the filmy opposite wall.

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David Drake - Hammer's Slammers 15 - Grimmer Than Hell

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