The first thing most people notice when they encounter Major David Laithrom, are his hands. His hands are larger than average and each finger is very strong. On one of these fingers, the Major wears a thin gold band symbolizing the great love he has for his wife. Yet, the characteristic that attracts people's attention to the Major's hands is not their size or the Major's simple weading band, but the coloration of the scar tissue that covers them.
The scars affect only the texture and coloration of the fingers skin, allowing each hand to work as perfectly and precisely as every other part of Major Laithrom. To the knowledgable observer, though, the striking traceries of pale pink that cross his otherwise dark skin, reveal the fact that several years ago, skillful surgons regenerated and helped the Major recover the use of his hands.
If one were to comment on the Major's badge of couage, he would merely say that he had been at the wrong place at the right time and that only through the grace of God did he still have his hands; then he would change the subject.
When people are satisfied with Major Laithrom's hands, they would see a man just mature enough to apear both wise and youthful. Though forty, the Major's closely croped hair displayed only a small trace of gray. While not particularly tall, Laithrom, unconciously creates an impression of streghth and power most large men strive for by keeping his body in a constant state of tension. Only in the Major's face is there a hint of his history; Laithrom's jet black eyes often dance with a humorous but wistful spark.
Yet, Major Laithrom's eyes were not sparking in humor or wistfulness as he contemplated his current problem. Laithrom contemplated the Controller who had just entered his office from behind his standard isue desk, leting the man stand in the intermediate stage between Attention and At Ease that enlisted men occupy when they are befor an officer who hasn't asked them to sit down.
David Ash looked young, much like the average recruit, though his file said he was thirty years old, as of two months ago. Ash should have been promoted from Corporal to Sergent, long ago. Yet, Ash's eyes, set deep in his fresh face, revealed, almost unwillingly, a strangeness about him that was part of Laithrom's problem with promoting him. The odd feeling Ash emenated was not hostility or disdain but more than just coolness. Detachment was a closer description to the look in Ash's eyes, but not perfect.
"Sit down, Corporal. I need to talk with you, befor I write my final recomendation on your promotion."
Ash took a seat as instructed and relaxed slightly. He looked very attentive but did not reveal a single emotion as he waited for the Major to begin.
"You are one of the best controlers in this division, and you should be in charge of a squad. I need to discuss some questions that have been raised by the aftermission debriefings of some of the grunts you have controlled befor I make my final decision. Lets discuss Private Calvin Stine, first."
Ash's eyes narrowed slightly as he remembered Private Stine.
* * *
The room smelled of sweaty bodies, tension, ozone, and someone's obnoxious perfume. The air was thick and seemed to muffle the hum of fifteen quiet voices all talking at once to people several miles away. There was hardly any light except that which was reflected from the numerous screens and buttons on each of the fifteen stations that ran along both sides of the wall. Yet, it was possible, once ones eyes adjusted to the dimness, to discern the silohetts of people sitting in various attitudes at each console.
Each console gave its opperator access to inumerable bits of information. Most of this information concerned the status of the infantry man and Fighting Suit that the console was devoted to. The controler could determin the condition of the powerplant in the suit, the amount of amunition in the soldiers rifle, the metabolic condition of the man inside the suit, and the location of the nearest enemy with just a few keystrokes or voice comands. The suit's first aid prcedures could be activated if its occupant were unconsious. Certain weapons could be launched by the controler if the infantry man's attention were occupied.
The addion of the controler, with another pair of hands and eyes, prevented the information overload that the infantryman surely would experience if he had to monitor the information the complex systems of the Fighting Suit made available while actually engaging in combat.
At the moment, Corporal David Ash's charge was a young private with the experience of three missions behind him, named Calvin Stien. Stien was walking his fighting suit along a path that ran between the jungle and a slugish, brown river's edge, fifty meters behind the next man in the column; while he walked, Stien quietly complained to Ash about the stupidity of walking along an exposed trail, in the middle of the hottest part of the afternoon, when most of the damned Spics who weren't sighting mortars along this river were taking their siesta.
Ash listened to Stien with much less than half his attention. He maintained a constant watch on Stien's body temperature, in case he needed to warn the watch sergent that his man would need a brake soon. Stien was doing fine, though he was uncomfortable. In fact there wasn't anything about Stien or his fighting suit that wasn't well within the prescribed range, but after six years of training and two years of actual combat, Ash knew that constant vigelence had prevented many needless deaths.
Stien was like all the cheries Ash had controlled. After their first mission in the suit they considered themselves veterans and got careless. Stien wasn't too bad, but he had relaxed because he was in the middle of the column and assumed that since no one had shot up the front he was safe. He would learn, though, or he would probably be dead soon.
"You better get your head out of your ass and start watching the trail, Stien. I just saw a Bouncing Betty to your left and a wire leading into the river three meters ahead of you on the right side of the path."
Suddenly all business, "Can you do a resonance scan for a buried mine?" asked Stien.
"I already did and I don't get anything but dirt, but you and especialy those assholes ahead of you are damn lucky that the mine was old or whatever the hell it was that prevented it from exploding. You've got to watch, all the time, Stien, no mater where you are."
Stien was silent as the column continued up the left bank of the river, each man trying to keep an even interval between himself and the next man in line. There was little change in the apearance of the path as the men jolted along between the edge of the dense growth of the jungle and the brown surface of the slugish river. The other bank was a duplicate to this one except the jungle grew up to and in some cases out into the river. While the sceenery was monotonous there was much for a heavily armed man to look for allong the trail, including, mines that could pierce the armor of the suit, disturbances in the edge of the jungle that might indicate a hidden path, and signs of an ambush.
The march was very tiring for both the controler and the man in the suit. Controlers constantly scanned the area around the man they were responsible for with several different devices built into the suit, that detected temperature variations and the presence of metal under the ground, short range radar, and a visual representation of what the soldier could see around himself. The controler also monitored communications at the command level, the status of the suit and the man inside it, and comunicated all this information to the Watch Sergent. The watch Sergent could then provided the Platoon Sergent with an accurate evaluation of the platoon and its capabilities.
While most of the strain on the controler is mental, the man in the fighting suit is suffering all the fatigues that infantrymen have always suffere; exhaustion, thirst, physical strain, and fear. Yet, the modern soldier who wears a Fighting Suit is confined in a semi-rigid suit that fits within a few milimeters of his body; it weighs five hundered pounds and havs a supprising number of ways to kill not only an enemy but the user. The suit responds to the signals a soldiers nervious system sends to a part of his body just after that part of the body does, requiring that the soldier to learn to allow the suit to move for him. Cooling units help remove excess body heat, but under continuious exertion, the temperature inside will inevatably rise.
To a person not wearing the suit, the disadvantages inherent in Fighting Suits were certainly outweighed by their benifits. The suit provides protection from light weapons that would ordinarily kill an unprotected man. The suit also increases an infantrymans strength and allows him to cary a greater amount of firepower, all of which makes him much more deadly than an unarmored soldier can ever be. The price for this increase in effeciency was the obvious cost of the suit and the training of the soldier to use it, greater visibility on the battlefield, as well as the unacknowledged costs to the individual opperating the suit.
As Stien continued up the trail, more quietly and carefuly, now, Ash felt the watch Sergent standing behind his chair, but continued to ignore everything around himself that didn't have anything to do with keeping Stien from getting himself killed. Only when Sergent Berg reached down and touched his shoulder did Ash look up at him and then only for a moment.
Quietly, Ash said, "What's up, Berg?"
"First platoon just hit some heavy shit. They have eight down and half the platoon in pinned by the Spics mortars. The fucking L.T. called in a strike on the bluffs that are about 2 klicks ahead of your man's position. After the eagles shit their load, the L.T. was hit and blown by the next round that came in. Basicly that platoon is well and truely fucked because most of the casualties were N.C.O.s. So, your man and the rest of the Second platoon are going to play 'cavalry' to the First platoons 'besieged settlers'. Brief your man and get him ready for some heavy shit."
As Ash was explaining the situation to Stien, the order for the Second Platoon to advance while the rest of the column waited for them to clear the trail or get stuck themselves was given. Stien continued to complain about having to clean up the mess that First platoon had made until he noticed that Ash wasn't responding. Ash had controlled soldiers who ended up in the same position the men of the First platoon found themselves in too many times to be able to blame them for needing rescuing. Stien would learn, if he lived, that in war you either got rescued or you were doing the rescuing and often were doing both at the same time.
Fifteen minutes after Sargent Bergs warning, Ash began to hear the sound of the Spic mortars as well as some small arms fire and the answering thump of the machine gun all suits caried as thier main weapons. After another twenty minutes, the Second platoon was in range and had attracted the attention of the Spic Mortarmen. There were no casualties but even Stien, third to last man in the Second platoon's column was constantly geting pelted by fragments.
"Keep a sharp eye, Stien. The platoon is going to use grenade launcher to try to silence the mortars, so I will have fire missions as soon as you advance."
Stien didn't say anything and after examining his monitors, Ash realized that Stien was extriemely nervious and most likely very scared. But Stien was advancing and carefuly scaning the leaves ahead of himself as he left the trail and was plunged into the perpetual twilight of the Jungle. Soon, even the sound of the mortars impacting in front of the advancing line of Second platoons soldiers was muffled and nearly oblitterated by the density of the vegitation. The effect of the mortars was to slow down the advance though, and as the platoon began to close on the position of the first platoon they began to take casualties.
Ash fired the grenade launcher that Stien caried in a harness on his back as he recieved estimates of the mortars positions from the computers analysis of the path the mortar made to its target. The grenades were having little effect but suddenly the mortars stoped. Realizing that the chances that the grenades had had any effect were almost nil, Ash told Stien to get ready for an attack from the Spics.
Copyright 2000, Robert G. Werner
Each man is his own prisoner, in solitary confinement for life.