chapter=Chapter 2 Since there were no roads on the surface of Naffos, ground propelled units were of no use. Some sub surface equipment was used at the main Sun Side U.P. base, but all other transportation was water or air based. The U.P. remote unit at the fork of the Waj valley was surrounded by a thirty hectare clearance area allowing various supply craft manoeuvring space to land and take off. That was the official reason, unofficially it afforded the U.P. staff stationed there adequate warning of the actions of the local militias. Lieutenant Sanjit Ray urinated with enjoyment, breathing in the remarkably invigorating air that Nafos had on offer. He had been cooking in the cramped Nitro-steel quarters that were half buried in the rich loam of the ancient forest. Already dense grasses were growing over the mound, within a few Naf weeks the whole place would be green, except for the little patch of soil on which he was cultivating herbs, peppers and spices, seeds of which he had illegally smuggled onto the surface three Naffoolian months earlier. Lieutenant Sanjit Ray, also a U.P. career soldier, did not have quite the stature of his new commander, he stood at five foot ten in his stocking feet. He had lived his life in the military being called "shorty," "titch" and "stubby" by the men and women he worked with. He didn't mind, they only called them that until they got to know him, and then they apologised. Sanjit had a degree in advanced conflict resolution and was a keen and inexhaustible negotiator. He would never rise to any bait, when aggressive young subalterns had goaded him in a rash display of aggressive femininity, he waited and waited until they were exhausted and then started negotiating. Sanjit knew Commander Hunter was on his way. He had received multiple warnings about the Commanders peculiar non-intentional problem creation. He was being sent to Waj valley as a safety measure, to try and keep him out of harms way until a post could be found for him in a non war zone. It was a strangely worded apology from Nafos U.P. central command, which had ordered he destroy all evidence of the message as soon as he'd read it. He had prepared a delightful meal of lightly boiled Nafos rice, a selection of freshly steamed vegetables and a massive pot of Chicken Korma. Chickens being abundant on the planet and running wild all around them. He knew that strictly speaking they weren't earth chickens, but that is what the UP personell had come to call them. They were the size of a small ostrich and were called Mult by the locals, or Hult, by some other locals, Pult by a large section and even Jultilimbinini by others. That was the thing about Nafos, everything had five or six names names, including the planet. This was because, in theory at least, there were 3 distinct groupings on the planet. They all hated each other equally, not only that, but each group was a mass of sub groups who also seemed to hate each other in a regular rhythm of tolerance, allegiance and downright murder. As if that wasn't bad enough, there was no tell tale difference between the groups, no skin or hair colour, limb webbing or digit number difference. In fact they were all from the same biological background, on Nafos it was more a political and religious war, the sort of thing long extinct elsewhere. This of course, made it fascinating for historians and sociology students, and the place was crawling with them. The planet's major population grouping, the Royal Nafoolians, claimed the longest and most warlike dynasty on the planet. They could not only remember battles of several hundred thousand Naf years distance, they would celebrate them with regular and always spectacular festivals of war and carnage.. They used the term Royal because they supported a King who claimed that her family had ruled the entire planet for as long as history could re-call. According to them, everyone else was a usurper and traitor, a rebel or thug. The Royal Nafoolians had what would be considered a traditional army. Many thousands of heavily armed foot soldiers but precious little in the way of off surface military hardware. Some high calibre pulse field artillery, mortars and long range stealth weaponry which they managed to smuggle to the surface despite a fifty year U.P. arms embargo. The Royal Nafoolians had by far the most advanced society, fairly militaristic and disciplined, with elaborate educational institutions and large cities. They were not averse however to staggering levels of violence. The Fauls, or Middle Nafs were the next largest group in terms of numbers, although a lot less heavily armed. They had stolen or looted most of their weapons from the charred bodies of Royal Nafoolian troops after a midnight assault on some solitary complex or other. The Fauls, the term was pronounced "forl" were a mixed group of supposedly democratic peoples. They called the planet Faul, and the language Faulian, although in a large part it was the same language used the by Naffoolians.. The Mullambimbi's were the smallest group in terms of population density and cultural heritage. They lived in the near dark hinterland at the furthest point from the sun, and any heritage they did at one time possess had been decimated by brutal reprisal raids by either, or sometimes both of the opposing sides. Reprisal attacks always because if there was one thing the Mullambimbi's could be proud of, it was their reputation for staggering brutality. They were, in many respects, the most feared of all groups on the planet. Their massacres had stood as beacons in a landscape littered with massacre sites vying for attention. So Sanjit never knew what to call the big birds that tasted like chicken, he decided that the term chicken was at least equally offensive to all groups on the planet. He had only used the delicious breast meat, hauling the remainder of the carcass onto his ever growing compost heap. It was an old habit he knew wasn't really necessary, Nafos had the most fertile soil of any planet he had visited, he had yet to find a plant that couldn't survive in it's ever moist tilth. Sanjit returned to his galley to check that everything was in order. He carefully lifted the pot on the thermal pulse stove and inhaled the rich coconut smell that steamed around his bearded face. "Delicious." he muttered to himself. "What is that shite smell!" said an all too familiar voice. "Fucking hell Sanj, it smells like boiled baby shite. I hope you don't think I am going to eat that." "Don't worry private, I have prepared a fried egg sandwich for you." "Oh shaggin" hell Sanj," The whining voice belonged to an enormous trooper by the name of Hitchmouth. Private Krit Hitchmouth had entered the steel unit bearing, as usual, a formidable array of weaponry. "Not one of them massive ostrich egg things." He moaned, like a schoolboy weighed down with too much homework. "You know they make me fart like a cannon." "I have applied some herbs to the sandwich which should reduce the gas you produce in your upper bowel Hitchmouth. It might help if you actually chewed your food instead of attempting to swallow each mouthful as a whole lump. It's quite disgusting to watch, and very bad for your digestive tract." "Herbs! For fuck sake Sanj, you know I hate all that herb shite." "You won't even notice them. I promise. Now help me get the camp a bit ship shape, we have our new commander arriving this morning." Hitchmouth stood looking at Sanjit with his mouth wide open. He looked around him for support or verification that he was not wrong in assuming that the man he was looking at was indeed a complete moron. "You want me to tidy up. Shall I put a shagging pinny on?" "I don't know what a pinny is, but if it helps, why not?" "And what if there's activity, out there, with the militias? Eh, and I'm in "ere polishing the shagging candelabras! Sanjit, the shaggin woods are crawling with Nafoolians, well tooled up, fingers red raw with trigger itch. And here's me dusting the bastid cupboards as a five hundred volt impulse round comes crashing through the bastid roof." "Hitchmouth, I.." "It's going to happen Sanj!" He bellowed unnecessarily. "The bastids are busting for action, I heard a troop carrier this morning, skimmin" the fucking tree tops. The place is swarming with Nafs, coming down from the South East, and you know the Mullambimbi's are well dug in on the hill up the back. That crowd of Fauls we saw the other day, they're over on the eastern flank. I tell you Sanj, we are shagged in the middle here." "It's very good that you pay so much attention to the situation Hitchmouth, I commend you for it, but.." "What the hell am I here for, eh? What!" Hitchmouth walked around in a tight circle, his straps and clips and toggles and Velcro fasteners clinking and chinking together. "I stand out there, all weathers." "There's only one kind of weather here, Hitchy, and it's delightful." "I stand out there, day in day out." "It's always day here Hitchy." "Okay, I stand there for friggin" hours watching listening, assessing, ready at a moments notice to turn this clearing into a free fire zone, more impulse rounds than they've ever seen. I'm ready Sanj, you know what I'm saying. I'm shagging well ready. And there's you with your cooking and noncing about, preparing the bunker for some toss-head Commander who's never got his shagging boots dirty, let alone been in a fire fight." Hitchmouth wiped a white gob of spittle from his sizeable chin, Sanjit studied his face, trying to imagine how life must be for someone so painfully ugly. "You are right Hitchmouth, you must keep watch." said Sanjit happily, his suggestion had merely been a ruse to try and muster some company in the steel box he called home. Although the two men had shared this clearing in the forest for nearly a Nafos year, they rarely saw or spoke to each other. Hitchmouth was always out in the forest, watching the militias and keeping tabs on the political developments within each group, sub group and splinter movement. When he did "return to base" as he put it, it was only to re-stock on combat rations, take a shower, have a clothing re-spray and re-charge his massive array of pulse weaponry. Sanjit opened an old munitions box and extracted his fine collection of bone handled cutlery, bought in an auction in Bombay during his most recent period of home leave. He went there with his daughter Ruby, married now and expecting his first grandchild. That will be a wonderful day, when he could return to earth and hold the infant in his arms, it would be many Naf months before that particular dream came true. "Incoming!" screamed Hitchmouth, Sanjit just had time to see him dive across the floor with his massive arms curled professionally over his head. Although Sanjit was not a keen military man, he'd been around war zones enough to know when it was wise to eat dirt. The round impacted just as he hit the floor and his body bounced a good fifty centimetres into the air as the shock wave rippled the ground like a shaken bed sheet. "Bastards!" said Hitchmouth who ran to the armaments control fob and punched a very large red button, he lifted a safety catch and thumb flicked a switch. From the grassy roof of the steel bunker a small pole emerged with the rapidity that only ultra high pressure hydraulics can supply. Lobes emerged from the top of the pole and emitted a massive blast of impulse rounds which shot out, circled momentarily while they searched the heat source of the impact cannon and then homed in on their target at light speed. The cannon and it's controllers, a splinter brigade of the Royal Nafs, carefully concealed, so they thought, behind a grassy hummock, had no chance. Speed of response being the U.P."s most effective weapon, they could not withdraw anything like fast enough. A blast ripped through the beautiful woodland, an area slightly over a hectare was an instant blackened burning patch as shards of weaponry, body parts and massive tree stumps fell amongst the surrounding wind lashed trees. "I should have been out there!" screamed Hitchmouth. "We've taken impact, we never should've taken impact!" "I am sorry Hitchy." said Sanjit getting to his feet and brushing the dust off his apron. The thermal stove had died, his Korma was going to get cold unless the Commander turned up very soon. Hitchmouth was peering through the exterior door with his remote, holding the unit on an improvised pole. "We've got vehicular activity in sector 3, I'm going to vaporise!" shouted Hitchmouth. "We have no authorisation for this intrusion!" "Hitchy, wait a moment please." said Sanjit as calmly as he could. "We cannot afford to wait Sanj, that's what they're counting on, U.P. dithering. I say pound them with conventionals now!" He reached across to the launch terminal and pressed another button. Sanjit noticed a small amber light flashing on the console. Too late, the deep bass thud of a conventional round-launch throbbed through the encampment. "It might be the new Commander!" said Sanjit, he glanced through the remote's eyepiece. "Oh heavens above, that's a U.P. transport Hitchy." He watched the enhanced image on the roof mounted monitor as the round found it's target, a massive explosion forced the craft to hit the dirt, it bounced back up and lost it's equilibrium, skirting to the left, tipping hopelessly sideways revealing it's thrust pack and digging back into the rich Nafoolian loam. "Now that is a bit of a setback." said Sanjit, turning to face his compadre. "Are you sure it's a U.P. unit?" asked Hitchmouth, his mouth betraying his bravado and showing the scared little boy inside the massive man's body. "Hitchy, you've just blown the new commander to bits. Direct hit with a fifty mil conventional. What d'you think, we hadn't got any negative ID." Sanjit could feel his temper rising. He'd been sharing a small home with this man for more Naf months than he cared to remember. "We probably took that incoming when the U.P. transport showed up, they were firing at anything that moved. For Goodness sake Hitchy, our role is to observe, not engage!" Sanjit pulled on his flack jacket and blue helmet, picked up the first aid box, slipped his feet into his combat boots and stood motionless while they tightened. He always got blisters if he tried to run while his boots were still auto-adjusting. He climbed outside the sunken bunker and noticed the large patch of impact damage to one side of the door. It had left his vegetable patch virtually unscathed but it looked very messy. Some of his pot plants had been scattered and the small wooden seat Hitchy had made was no more than kindling. He made his way through the thick grass toward the smoking upturned wreckage of the U.P. transport. A B15, six person off surface vehicle, armour plated but not able to withstand direct hits from large calibre conventionals. Sanjit approached the vehicle with caution. "Hello, anyone there? My name is Lieutenant Sanjit Ray, U.P." "This is most painful." came a voice from inside the vehicle. "Most painful indeed." Sanjit peered through the mud spattered windshield, a large chinned face was pressed up against it. The face smiled. "Commander Hunter?" asked Sanjit. "The same." said the face. "Welcome to the Waj valley sir."