When all else failed—or when you needed to play for time—a good soldier could always fall back on talking or Psy Ops. Pappy checked his radio display, found out the frequency Chakarvarti was using, and keyed his transmitter to it. “This is Papillon MacLeod,” he announced. “Where are you, Colonel?”
“Greetings,” Chakarvarti said. “I’m a bit surprised by your question. My rangefinder puts me approximately a hundred sixty-two meters from your line of foxholes.”
“You’re running the Dunsland?” Pappy asked, frowning. “I’m surprised.”
“How so?”
“Full colonels don’t usually lead the charge themselves,” Pappy said. “Normally a lieutenant would be a more proper commander for what’s essentially a mechanized platoon.”
“Agreed,” Chakarvarti said. “But in this case, United Earth Command was hesitant to share the true nature of this mission with anyone but trusted senior officers.”
“What mission would that be?” Pappy asked. “The complete subjugation of the Lunar Colonies?”
“I think you know what the mission is,” Chakarvarti said. “And the true pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”
“You’ve got the accent wrong,” Pappy said, feeling his lip twist as he studied the Uey position. He’d hoped that the need to clear out the rock pile pinning the Dunsland in place would have Chakarvarti ordering every spare hand to that task. But the colonel was clearly still wary of the Loonies’ cement bombs, and had left both three-man shield teams in place to guard against more such attacks.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m British, not Irish,” Pappy said. “No leprechauns or pots of gold.” Not that the second shieldbearer team was even necessary. Not anymore. With Morgan’s bomb gone, Pappy’s earlier idea of lobbing two of them in rapid succession was already over and done with.
Unless . . .
He keyed off the radio. “Morgan, is there any chance we can aim our catapult high enough for plunging fire?”
“What’s that?”
“You give the bomb enough of an upward vector that it lofts over the shieldbearers,” Pappy explained, frowning at her catapult. “Like at a sixty- or seventy-degree launch angle. I’m not seeing any way to do that.”
“There isn’t one,” she said. “They’re not designed for anything higher than forty-five. I guess no one thought we’d need anything higher than that.”
“Or else they didn’t want one of us accidentally firing it straight up and dropping it back on top of us,” Pappy growled. So much for that idea.
Chakarvarti was talking again, and Pappy keyed his transmitter. “Sorry; what was that?”
“I said I didn’t mean to insult your heritage,” the colonel said. “I assumed the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow had entered more common usage.”
“It has,” Pappy acknowledged. “Just wanted to clear up any misconceptions as to who you were talking to.”
“Oh, no misconceptions at all,” Chakarvarti assured him. “Former Sergeant Papillon MacLeod of His Majesty’s Special Air Service ‘A’ Squadron Mobility Troop. Joined September 2027; discharged February 2042 after the Birmingham insurgency left you with a permanently damaged left leg. Joined the Lunar Colonies fifteen months later as an accountant. An accountant? Really?”
“I also work with inventory and acquisition,” Pappy said, his gut twisting as a hundred half-buried memories came flooding to the service, threatening his composure and focus. Probably the reason Chakarvarti had brought up the Birmingham disaster in the first place. “None of it requires much walking around.”
“And no one’s shooting at you,” Chakarvarti said. “At least, no one was until now. Speaking of which, I believe one of your team has been injured. If you’re willing, I can offer him help.”
The knot in Pappy’s stomach tightened another half turn. “He’s hardly injured. A couple of scratches, that’s all.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Chakarvarti said. “Still, I don’t see anyone from Hadley Colony rushing to his aid. We, on the other hand, have a fully equipped first-aid setup here.”
“In your Dunsland that’s currently going nowhere?”
“The operative word being currently,” Chakarvarti said. “Your rock slide was most impressive, but all it accomplished was to block that wheel and axle. Once we clear away the rubble we’ll once again be free to advance.”
“Maybe,” Pappy said. “The work would probably go faster if you put more people on it.”
Chakarvarti gave a low chuckle. “You mean draw off our advance line? No, thank you. Those adhesive bombs of yours are extremely effective. What is the material inside, if I may ask?”
“He’s stalling,” Morgan murmured in Pappy’s ear.
Pappy keyed off his transmitter. “I know,” he told her. “Watch the ridge—he may be trying to move in more flankers.”
“What do I do if I see any?”
“Paintball the crap out of them.” He keyed his transmitter again. “It’s a vacuum cement we use for emergency repairs,” he said. “Very tough stuff. You can repair dome damage with it.”
“Very tough indeed,” Chakarvarti agreed. “I’m surprised you haven’t tried marketing it on Earth.”
“We might have,” Pappy said. “I really don’t know. Could be the Council decided running the gauntlet of environmental vetting wasn’t worth the effort. Chemicals leaching into the groundwater or confusing aphids isn’t exactly a problem up here.”
“Definitely not,” Chakarvarti said. “But I’d like to return to your wounded soldier. I presume you’re aware how quickly a man can bleed to death in a spacesuit. If you bring him to me I personally guarantee on my honor to deal with his injuries and to treat him fairly and justly.”
“As a prisoner of war?”
“Are we at war?” Chakarvarti countered. “After all, the presence of insurgents in Birmingham didn’t mean the entire city was at war with the United Kingdom.”
With a conscious effort, Pappy unclenched his teeth. Chakarvarti was really pulling out all the stops on this one. “They’re hardly equivalent situations.”
“Aren’t they? The insurgents used guns and explosives, just as you did. That alone violates the most recent agreements between the Lunar Colonies and United Earth.”
A movement to Pappy’s right caught his eye, and he turned just in time to see a helmeted head drop back out of sight behind the ridge as Morgan’s paintball spattered a splash of bright red onto the nearby rock. “Damn,” she muttered.
“Keep firing,” Pappy ordered, stifling a curse of his own as he again cut off his transmitter. And his own gun was stuck in the next foxhole, across twenty meters of open ground.
No choice, though—he had to risk it. “And keep an eye on the whole ridge,” he added. “That one might have been a feint. I’m going to get my gun.”
“Pappy—”
Morgan’s protest was cut off as he yanked out the cable, bent his knees, and bounded out of her foxhole. Leaning forward, he bounded off across the ground as fast as he could, his muscles tensed in anticipation of the machine-gun bullets that could tear into him at any moment.
But if the Ueys attacked, none of the shots came near enough for him to spot. He dropped into his foxhole with a puff of relief and scooped up his paintball gun with one hand and the cable to Morgan with the other. He spun around toward her, his eyes sweeping the ridge for attackers as he plugged in the cable. No one was in sight, but there were two more fresh paintball splotches. “Morgan?”
“You were right—he was a feint,” she said. “Two more tried coming up at—”
“Yeah, yeah, I see the marks,” Pappy cut her off, scanning the ridge. No one yet. Reaching down blindly, he snared the comm cable to KC and plugged it in. “KC? How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” KC gritted out. “Look—those two Ueys Morgan plastered? I think they’re—”
“Damn it,” Pappy snarled as it suddenly clicked. How the hell hadn’t he caught tha
t himself? Oxy starvation, or just damn mental rust? “Morgan—listen—those Ueys you pinned earlier are spotting for the others. We have to blind them—”
“No, no, wait,” KC interrupted. “Not yet. Give me a second.”
“What?” Pappy asked, frowning. KC’s breathing changed subtly, indicating some activity. But Pappy didn’t dare turn around to see what he was doing. “KC?”
“Okay,” KC said. “Get ready to blind the Ueys—you’ll know when.”
The last word was cut off as KC unplugged his cable. Pappy swore under his breath, his eyes flicking between the spotters and the rest of the ridge, berating himself for not seeing it sooner.
A second later he jerked in surprise as KC bounced past him into view, bounding toward the ridge with a big wrench in one hand and the knife from his tool kit in the other. Raising the knife high, he charged toward the ridge.
Grinning tightly with sudden understanding, Pappy sent a blinding barrage of paintballs into each of the trapped Uey soldiers’ faceplates.
“Pappy?” Morgan gasped as KC bounded past her.
“Keep watching,” Pappy said, keying his transmitter again. “Chakarvarti—for the love of God—get your men back!” he barked. “Get them back now! He’s gone off the rails.”
“What are you talking about?” Chakarvarti demanded. But Pappy could hear the sudden wary confusion in his voice.
“The pain meds,” Pappy said tightly. “They have side effects in an oxy-rich atmosphere.”
“Is that a knife?”
“You want this war to start with United Earth gunning down a wounded, half-insane man?” Pappy snarled. “With you gunning down a wounded, half-insane man? Pull them back, damn it.”
KC reached the ridge and started bounding his way up. Pappy held his breath, his own less than stellar attempt to climb the crumbling rock flashing to mind.
But KC was a miner, and had had far more experience with this kind of thing. He hit the first set of footholds like a gymnast sticking a landing, and even as one of them began to crumble he was on his way up to the second. He passed the two blinded Ueys, reached the top and balanced there for a second . . .
And then, dropped his arms suddenly to his sides and started sliding back down the slope.
Morgan gasped. “Pappy—?”
Pappy keyed off his transmitter. “Hold on,” he cautioned. KC looked like he was simply falling, but Pappy could see the subtle but deliberate shifting of hands and feet to slow his descent. He reached the ground and collapsed onto his back, his knife and wrench bouncing a couple of times off the rock before they came to a halt.
At his side, invisible from the Ueys’ position, his fingers curled toward his palm and his thumb stuck briefly up.
Pappy puffed out a brief sigh of relief. Talking or Psy Ops. He once again keyed his transmitter. “Chakarvarti? You there?”
“I’m here,” the colonel said. “I’ve pulled back my troops. Is he all right?”
“I don’t know,” Pappy said. “You going to let me go get him and bring him back to my foxhole?”
There was a brief hesitation as Chakarvarti probably ran United Earth’s orders through his mind. But apparently the thought of his name plastered unflatteringly across the next century’s worth of history texts tipped the balance. “Go,” he said. “But if you try to escape or attack, we will shoot you down.”
“Thanks.” Unplugging his cable, Pappy heaved himself cautiously over the lip of his foxhole. If Chakarvarti was going to be an unprincipled bastard, this was his chance.
But the Ueys held their fire as he hopped over to KC. Leaving the wrench and knife where they were, he got the man up into his arms. “Though history might well say that your bombs were the true start of this war,” Chakarvarti continued as Pappy made his way back to his foxhole.
“You mean the cement bombs?” Pappy asked. “Hardly a lethal weapon.”
“I mean the bomb you used to bring down the top of the ridge.”
“That wasn’t a bomb,” Pappy said. “Just an oxygen tank with a torch wedged under it to heat it past the pressure-stress margin. And you already said no one was hurt, right?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
Another pause. “Not directly,” Chakarvarti said, a little grudgingly. “But that cement could be a problem. It’s already torn at least one man’s outer suit layer.”
“You were probably trying to brute-force it off him,” Pappy said, easing KC into the foxhole and climbing in after him. “Hang on a second—I need to check his med display.”
He cut his transmitter and plugged in KC’s cable. “Nice job, KC,” he said. “How are you doing?”
“You tell me,” KC said, his voice distant. “You’re the one looking at the display.”
“Yes—silly of me,” Pappy said, feeling his eyes narrow. KC’s vitals were okay, but as Pappy had feared the suit wasn’t doing a very good job of stopping the bleeding. It was slow, but not showing any signs of stopping. He had to get that MASH truck here, and fast.
“Sergeant MacLeod?”
Pappy switched on again. “He’s stable,” he told Chakarvarti. “Still bleeding, though.”
“I’ve offered our assistance,” the colonel reminded him. “That offer still stands.”
“Yeah, I’ll take it under advisement,” Pappy said. “As to your own little problem, as I was saying, you can’t just force the cement. You have to be a bit more inventive.”
“How?”
“I have no idea what you’ve got in there,” Pappy pointed out. “Even if I did, I’m hardly a materials expert.”
“Could you at least offer some suggestions?”
“Sure,” Pappy said. “First suggestion: pack up and get back to the Tranquility Transfer Station. Second suggestion: get in your ship, head back to Earth, and don’t come back.”
Chakarvarti chuckled. “That’s three suggestions, actually. Five, counting your two first. Come now, Sergeant, let’s be reasonable. We’re just the pawns in a much bigger game, you and I. There’s really no need for us to be at each other’s throats. On the contrary, this is the perfect opportunity for us to show both of our worlds that we can behave like civilized men. You have wounded; I have disabled. We can help each other, and in the process perhaps defuse this whole unfortunate situation.”
“I already told you how to defuse it,” Pappy reminded him. “United Earth is the aggressor here. We’re just defending our territory.”
“Your territory?” Chakarvarti retorted, his calm demeanor cracking a bit. “As I read the numbers, you’re still nearly eighty percent subsidized by United Earth. If we withdrew our support, you’d starve inside of six months.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Pappy said. “I’m an accountant, remember? I know how Geneva is cooking those numbers. Throw in the lopsided tariff and taxation arrangements you’ve saddled us with, and those numbers shift dramatically.”
“But not enough,” Chakarvarti said. “Interesting, though, that you should bring up money. In particular, the shot heard ’round the world analogy is especially relevant when you consider the history of the phrase. It was, after all, the rich American landowners who sent the poor colonists out to fight and die. Very much like the situation here.”
“We don’t really have landowners here,” Pappy said. “Not much on the land worth having.”
“Not at all,” Chakarvarti said. “There are all the metals and other resources. But I was thinking more about how Luna’s rich and powerful are the ones holding the Mimic. I doubt they’re sharing its largesse with the rest of you.”
Pappy felt his ears prick up. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really?” Chakarvarti made a tsking sound. “Then you make my point for me. Your masters haven’t even told you what they’ve sent you out here to die for?”
“Not a clue,” Pappy said. If Morgan couldn’t—or wouldn’t—let them in on the big secret, maybe Colonel Chakarvarti would be
more obliging. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”
“Pappy—no!” Morgan breathed. “You’re not supposed to—”
“Because I’m betting you don’t really know anything,” Pappy continued. At the very least, this might be their chance to find out exactly how much the Ueys knew.
“You’re either remarkably ignorant or you’re stalling,” Chakarvarti said. “No matter. Either way, I’m happy to play along.”
Pappy smiled humorlessly. Especially since Chakarvarti himself was playing the exact same stalling game while he freed the Dunsland from Pappy’s rockslide.
His smile faded. Which meant he and Morgan had that same rapidly closing window to figure out how to immobilize the vehicle permanently.
But how?
Their best bet was obviously their single remaining cement bomb. But getting it past two groups of shieldbearers would be nearly impossible, especially now that the Ueys knew how dangerous the weapons were. In retrospect, he now realized he should probably have taken a bomb over the ridge and attacked with that instead of his oxy-tank rockslide.
On the other hand, given the problems he’d had scaling the brittle rock, there was a good chance he’d never have made it up the ridge with the bomb intact, and might possibly have ended up cemented to the lunar surface himself.
Unfortunately, even if he wanted to take that risk now, there was no way that trick would work a second time. Chakarvarti might have pulled back his flanking team, but they were certainly still on the other side of the ridge near the Dunsland where they could guard against another sneak attack.
“The Mimic is an alien device,” Chakarvarti said. “One of your mining groups dug it up approximately seven months ago, and your leaders have been attempting to keep it all to themselves.”
“Well, finders keepers, as the saying goes,” Pappy said. If he could somehow figure out how to rig more monofil traps . . . but while there were already two more of those in place, hidden in more of the ground cracks along the Freeway, the Ueys now knew what to look for and it was doubtful they’d be taken in again so easily. Even if they didn’t spot the traps before they were triggered, that kind of snare depended on the Dunsland tank rolling over the loops fast enough to entangle the monofil solidly around the exposed parts of the wheel and axle. If the Ueys simply kept everything to a crawl, then stopped the second the monofil appeared, they could extricate themselves with little trouble.
Battle Luna Page 6
