Strange Company Nick Cole (best classic novels TXT) 📖

“We…?” I asked the warrant. I didn’t like this. Voodoo had priorities that didn’t often match up with those of keeping my men alive and completing the mission. Half the time it seemed like they just wanted to do some darkness as Punch once put it. That’s whack, Sarge.

Again, the theatrics of surprise from the chief. Behind us, coming down the aqueduct, I could see a mammoth fuel hauler with twelve massive big ball-wheels, low and flat, smoking and belching as it came up shifting through its gears in the morning mist never mind the distant explosions and flames. I recognized it as old war surplus from the Monarchs’ military supply units. Soldiers who knew it, and there were very few left who’d seen this kind of vehicle in active service, called it the Land Whale. It was used to fuel supply guppy dropships back in the Sindo.

Cook cleared his throat.

“Uh, yes, Sergeant Orion. I will be following you in with the,” he turned to indicate the Land Whale, “HMWVFT 195 as you can see. I call it the… uh… Ice Cream Truck. For purposes of the operation henceforth.” Then he laughed mischievously to himself because this was all very funny to him.

Of course, I had to ask.

“And why do you call it that, Chief Cook?”

“Well, Orion,” he said grandly, holding up one tanned long finger I could see small white scars on. “It’s loaded with near-deadly, and almost certainly deadly in oversaturated doses like those currently contained within the HMWVFT 195, psychotropic gases. Real, real crazy stuff, Orion. We used this back in the Call-Galli in sixty-nine when things started to go pear-shaped big-time. Highly effective. Extremely deadly in high doses. And… critical to Strange Company’s mission objective to take the main terminal in green ring. We’re gonna drive this pig in there and gas ’em until they can’t distinguish between reality and the Nine Hells of Qua.”

Chapter Eight

I asked Chief Cook if we needed to mask up before the assault on the port of entry green ring main terminal. Chemical warfare was not unheard of in the world of private military contracting along the outer worlds. In fact, it was expected. Especially if you accepted the soldier’s evergreen maxim that if you ain’t cheatin’, you ain’t tryin’. All soldiers and mercenaries live by that wisdom. The Stellar Judiciary might have strong feelings on the subject of chemical warfare, but we’d go chemical on someone just as fast as they would on us. That was the way it got played if you were playing to win. And we were always playing to win.

There are no second places in war. In it to win it is the only way to play.

Winning meant you got to fight another day. Or, it just meant you survived.

Chemical’s a hassle, but it beats gettin’ shot by a… well, it beats getting shot by a long shot. If anyone ever told you war was fair, or that it was supposed to be, they were lying to you because they wanted to do some very unfair things to you by surprise.

Bullets are quick, but gas’ll do the trick, I once heard a merc say when we hit an entrenched bunker with nerve agents. The bunker was so deep and well-built, it had survived all our AT and arty. We’d cracked the front door and lost two squads on the threshold. Just like that. Fifteen seconds of full-auto sentry-gun murder. So we regrouped and gassed ’em and then went in later after they were all dead.

Either way they were gonna end up dead. The only difference is, there were just less of us dead when the equation solved for the same outcome. Breach, or Gas. Either way it’s gonna get done.

Still, the thought of going to an advanced protective posture to keep us safe from chemical agents was going to add to the suck of an already long day getting longer, and hotter by the second. Jingo walked by sweating and proclaimed that the weather analysis for the battle was all off. It was supposed to be cool and foggy. Instead it was hot, humid, muggy, and foggy. And it felt like the sun was going to burn off all that cover any second. Then it’d just get hotter. Lotsa fun in full-assault battle rattle. But I complain too much. Back to the hassle of using chemical agents in warfare. First off everyone would have to get a lot of extra gear out of their personal supply. Or Sergeant Biggs, Go Biggs or Go Home as our supply sergeant likes to say every time over initiated comm, for no clear reason, would have to come forward with the crawler for an additional personal gear draw.

All kinds of problems with that. Not the least of which was it would give our position away to enemy observers watching our line and waiting for the attack out there. Then they’d have a pretty good idea of where to drop some artillery rounds once we were out in the open.

“Nah,” laughed Chief Cook in that quick friendly-psycho machine-gun bark-mutter of his. Waving his hand as though dismissing an offer of more cake at a lady’s high tea. “I got some retro-agent doses for you and the boys that are going to shift the effects on you for a bit. Not saying it’s going to be pleasant, but… at least the nerve agent won’t be lethal if you don’t get a full dose. Theoretically. I tried the stuff on myself last night. And a little this morning to be honest. It’s fun and I feel great. Seeing the connections in the universe and the big-picture stuff if you know what I mean, Sergeant Orion. Worked for me. Real trip though. Ever try pharmaceutical-grade acid, Sar’nt?”

I had not.

“Of course you haven’t. Stuff doesn’t exist if you believe Monarch Psyops. Well,” he said, heading off to the truck in a business-like manner and waving at unseen insects, I