The deserter understood why that was important, because should the off-worlder manage to unite the tribes against the Hudathans, he might also convince them to remain together when the war was over, which would have the effect of reducing the chieftains’ autonomy and power. A definite no-no.
A relatively harmless raid had been sufficient to pull the unsuspecting breed away from his company HQ and into the foothills. The bandit grinned and back-wiggled into the safety of some randomly piled rocks. Muscle rippled under his gray-striped fur as he stood. He wore a weapons harness, pistol belt, leather pants, and Legion-issue combat boots. His dooth smelled him, grunted in recognition, and pawed the ground. The Naa scrambled down out of the rocks, put a foot into a stirrup, grabbed onto the side-mounted saddle handle, and pulled himself up and onto the beast’s shaggy back. The raiding party consisted of six Naa and two humans. All of them were deserters who hated the Legion. He gave a hand signal, gestured towards the trail, and led them upwards.
The flat scrub-covered plain had given way to steeply slanted slopes and a jumble of rocks. Booly scanned the area, saw what he recognized as the mouth of an arroyo, and used hand signals to send his scouts in that direction. Both were full-blooded Naa, and members of the 13e Demi-Brigade de la Legion Étrangère, better known as the 13th DBLE.
As presently constituted, the brigade consisted of a command and services company, a works company, a reconnaissance squadron, and a combat company, presently commanded by none other than Captain William Booly, Jr. An officer who had not only been raised on Algeron but was personally familiar with large sections of it.
The scouts signaled their understanding, and moved out up the ravine with the easygoing confidence of the veterans they were, for in keeping with Naa tradition, and the nature of the world on which they’d been raised, both had been blooded long before they joined the Legion.
The ravine made for relatively easy going but could also lead them into an ambush. To counter that threat Booly gave his scouts a good head start, pulled his four Trooper Ils down off the flanks, and replaced them with the more agile bio bods.
The young officer’s knees hurt from riding a Trooper II for the last six hours. He could have dismounted, but was reluctant to do so since it would cost him the additional range obtained by jacking into the cyborg’s com system. And communications were essential. Still, he felt guilty about riding while some of his troops walked, and took the point position by way of penance. A decision that his ride, a legionnaire named Helmo, reacted to with disgust.
It wasn’t fair! Not only did she have to haul the company commander’s butt all over hell’s half acre, she had to take the point as well, along with all the additional risks attendant on that position. Like taking an SLM between the vid cams, stepping on a mine, or triggering a full-scale ambush.
But orders were orders, so the cyborg brought her weapons systems up to condition-five readiness, and boosted her sensors to high gain. The light had started to fade and the darkness would bring added danger. Mom had been right. War sucks.
Thanks to the fact that she was the only ground pounder to make it off Jericho alive, and had dispatches for LEGCOM Algeron, Chrobuck was hustled down out of orbit, given high-priority ground transportation, escorted through what seemed like a hundred miles of Fort Camerone’s busiest underground corridors, and left to rot in the anteroom outside General Ian St. James’s office.
She was far from alone. The room held approximately twenty chairs and most were occupied. Chrobuck was the most junior officer present. She saw colonels, lieutenant colonels, a host of majors, and a civilian with a briefcase chained to her wrist. Some spoke to each other in low, confidential tones as others whispered instructions into their hand comps or scanned the month-old multimedia mags that lay scattered about.
The doors that provided access to the general’s office would open every fifteen minutes or so, an officer would emerge, and a name would be called. When this occurred, the fortunate man or woman would look up, receive a confirming nod, drop what he or she was doing, glance at a conveniently placed mirror, and disappear into the inner sanctum.
There was no discernible pattern to this activity, since a number of people who had arrived after Chrobuck had already been called, so she gave up trying to make sense of it. An hour had passed, and a snack had been served, when the young officer allowed her mind to drift.
The trip from Jericho had been relatively fast, only twelve days, but intensely miserable. Once Chrobuck came to, and realized where she was, a profound depression set in. The knowledge that her friends and comrades were dead, and that she had survived, triggered successive waves of guilt, sorrow, and anger.
Making a bad situation even worse was the lack of privacy, and the fact that her sole companion, Flight Lieutenant Bruce Jensen, didn’t care what happened on Jericho, as long as it didn’t happen to him, and spent all of his spare time trying to get into her pants. By the time the LRS-236 dropped into orbit they were barely speaking and Jensen had a black eye.
“Lieutenant Chrobuck?”
The voice jolted the officer out of her reverie. The other officers looked up, ran appraising eyes over her badly creased uniform, noted the not-very-clean bandage that decorated the side of her head, frowned, gave thanks that the ratty-looking lieutenant was someone else’s problem, and returned to whatever they’d been doing.
Chrobuck stood, glanced in the mirror, and wrote her uniform off as hopeless. She had never seen St. James, much less met him, but he had a reputation as a fighting general, more concerned with deeds than declarations, and she hoped it was true.
A heavily decorated sergeant major held the door open. A quarter of his face had been blown away during the first battle of Algeron and the resulting scar tissue transformed a smile into a grimace. “Right this way, Lieutenant . . . the general is waiting for you.”
Chrobuck entered a spacious but somewhat spartan office and saw that St. James was taking a com call. He was a handsome man, quickly going gray, with the quick, lean body of a mountain climber. He smiled, continued to speak into a wireless handset, and gestured towards one of two chairs that faced his desk. Chrobuck sat, took note of the carefully framed regimental photos that hung on the walls, the climbing mementos that filled a plexiglass case, and the brass plaque that had been mounted on the desk in front of her. It read, “Be bright, be brief, and be gone.” A picture of a beautiful Eurasian woman and two teenage boys occupied a side table and softened the overall effect.
Still, there was an almost palpable feeling of authority in the room, and Chrobuck felt tiny beads of sweat pop out on her forehead, and was about to wipe them away when St. James replaced the handset. He smiled. “Sorry about that, Lieutenant. I don’t know who frightens me the most, the homicidal Hudathans, or our own supply people. Lord knows both are out to get us.”
Chrobuck laughed in spite of herself. She knew St. James was putting her at ease and appreciated the effort. “Yes, sir. I know what you mean.”
St. James perched on a corner of his desk. His face grew serious. “I’m sorry about what happened on Jericho. We sent a relief force as soon as we could. It should have arrived by now. I hope it catches the bastards red-handed and erases them from the face of the cosmos. You’ll be interested to know that two of Worthington’s message torps made it through. The last one made mention of Hudathan cyborgs and the fact that you would be coming our way. Have you got something for me?”
Chrobuck nodded miserably and pulled a tiny data disk out of her belt pouch. It was just like her commanding officer to let St. James know that she was coming and thereby prevent any possibility that she would be treated as a deserter. She handed him the disk. “Yes, sir. The colonel sent you this.”
St. James took the disk, walked over to a wall-mounted holo player, and slipped it in. The room lights dimmed, colors chased each other through the air, and an image appeared. It was Colonel Wesley Worthington. He was on the edge of exhaustion but still managed a crooked smile. “He
llo, Ian, you old bastard. If you’re watching this then Lieutenant Chrobuck made it through. Take care of her . . . she’s one helluva fine officer.”
It was then that Worthington consulted some handwritten notes and launched into his report. He narrated some video of the Hudathan cyborgs, provided an analysis of their strengths and weaknesses, and sketched in what he knew about the enemy task force.
It was a masterful briefing and during the last part of the report Chrobuck had the rather unsettling experience of watching herself retreat to the ridge, get hit, and fall. She was grateful when the holo collapsed and the lights came up. St. James looked grim.
“Hearing about the Hudathan cyborgs and seeing them in action are two different things. No wonder the geeks have done so well. You did the Confederacy a great service, Lieutenant. This holo is just what we need to obtain more resources and kick certain programs into high gear. I’m just sorry that we paid such a high price to get it.”
Chrobuck nodded and stood. She fought to control the flood of tears that threatened to come. “Thank you, sir. Will there be anything else?”
St. James looked thoughtful. “I’m no shrink, but I’d say you need some time off, but not too much. Report to the BOQ. I’ll find you a slot. Lord knows it won’t be difficult. We need every officer we can get. Any requests?”
Chrobuck came to attention. Her salute was as crisp as she could make it. “Sir, yes, sir. I would prefer an infantry assignment if that’s possible.”
St. James nodded and returned her salute. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Chrobuck did an about-face and was halfway to the door when the general spoke again. “One more thing, Lieutenant . . .”
The younger officer turned. “Sir?”
“I’m putting you in for the Legion of Valor. It’s the least I can do after what you did on Jericho. The joint chiefs will have to pass on it but my recommendations are generally approved.”
Chrobuck swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. She knew the real heros lay dead on Jericho. And she knew that it would always be like this. The dead are dead; the living go on living. She forced a smile. “Thank you, sir.”
The horribly wounded sergeant major appeared out of nowhere, escorted her to the anteroom door, and called another name. A major stood, checked his uniform in the mirror, and entered behind her. The officers’ club was due for a party . . . and there were questions about the guest list.
They had climbed steadily upwards through another two-hour-and-forty-two-minute day. The ravine had played out long ago and given way to an ancient trail. It switchbacked endlessly upwards and vanished between two peaks. The sun had risen in the east and threw pink light across the mountains known as the Towers of Algeron. Some of the peaks reached more than eighty thousand feet into the sky, higher than Everest on Earth, or Olympic Mons on Mars.
In fact they were so massive that they would sink through Terra’s planetary crust. Except that Algeron was different from Earth. The centrifugal force created by the planet’s short rotation had created a larger-than-normal bulge at the equator. A bulge so huge that it had turned into a mountain range, which due to the gravity differential that existed between the two poles, weighed only half what it would on Terra.
With the added altitude the air had grown steadily colder, and Booly, only half-warmed by his proximity to the Trooper II’s body, wished he had thought to bring a parka. But the temperature, and the fact that his platoon was bone tired, was nothing compared to the worry. What was happening? And why hadn’t he heard from Parker by now? He knew this trail, knew that it would lead him up through the same pass that had witnessed countless ambushes during the last five hundred years, and had no wish to add to the makeshift graveyard that had long been established there. Booly remembered the patches of snow that never melted, the green-yellow lichen that grew on the heavily weathered stones, and felt a shiver run down his spine. Should he continue? Or turn back? The wind whistled down off the glaciers and knifed through his clothes.
Thanks to the fact that the officer thought he was in pursuit of everyday bandits, and had no idea that he had been selected the target, his efforts to defend against a full-scale ambush would be wasted. All Nightkiller needed was one clean shot and the whole thing would be over. The officer would collapse, his platoon would fire in every direction, collect the body, and withdraw. Nice, clean, and straightforward. The way all murders should be handled but seldom were. Yes, the bandit thought to himself as he withdrew the specially crafted rifle from the carefully greased scabbard, brains over brawn. It works every time.
With his cohorts placed to provide supporting fire should it become necessary, Nightkiller placed the rifle across his back, and climbed up through the jumble of rocks. Once near the top, he slowed rather than break the skyline, moved sideways until he found a gap between two boulders, and pulled the weapon into position.
It was chambered for hand-loaded 7.62-millimeter ammunition. The clip held twenty rounds but one would be enough. The rifle had a custom-shaped butt, an adjustable trigger mechanism, and a high-quality 1.5 X 6 day/night scope.
The bandit snuggled against the cold brown wood, peered into the scope, found the point where the trail made a long, slanty line against the opposite slope, and traced it back to a stand of wind-twisted trees. A scout stepped out in front of Nightkiller’s cross hairs, scanned the surrounding slopes through a pair of olive drab binoculars, and stopped.
The would-be assassin felt his heart skip a beat as the other Naa looked directly into his scope. Then, after ten or fifteen seconds, the scout turned away. What, if anything, had he seen? Nightkiller held his breath as the legionnaire said something into his boom mike and another figure appeared. The all-clear! Good. The waiting was nearly over. The bandit pulled the sling around his elbow for additional stability, locked his cross hairs onto a spot just beyond the trees, and settled down to wait. It wouldn’t be long.
Parker, now known as Gunnery Sergeant Parker, leaned backwards to the point where the swivel chair threatened to topple over, smiled, and opened the com link. “Delta Base to Honcho One. Over.” A bevy of technicians, all privy to what was going on, gathered behind him. They had worked hard to prepare a surprise party for the bandits and wanted to be there for the climax.
Booly, squinting up into momentary sunshine, answered. “Honcho One here . . . go.”
Parker scanned the monitors in front of him. Only one of the images mattered and that was the one that showed Easytalk Nightkiller from behind. The minisat, on temporary loan from the Navy, would soon be out of position. Another tac-eye would be along in about five minutes, but a lot could happen in five minutes, and Parker wanted closure now.
“We have a hole in the cloud cover. The subjects are in sight. They are approximately one mile southeast of your position. One bandit appears ready to fire on your column. He has eight bio bods in reserve. Request permission to fire.”
Booly frowned. One bandit positioned to fire? With eight in reserve? It didn’t make sense. An ambush would require all eight of them, and more, if they hoped to win. So what was going on? A hunting party, perhaps? Traders crossing the pass? A mistake would be horrible. He imagined pencil-thin energy beams slicing down out of the sky, the smell of singed fur, and bodies burned beyond all recognition. Bodies like his mother’s, his uncle’s, or any number of other relatives’.
Booly knew that most if not all of his brother and sister officers would presume that the Naa were guilty, would give the order without hesitation, and shrug helplessly if they were wrong. Because in spite of their valor during the first war, and in spite of their acceptance into the Legion since that time, the vast majority of humans saw the Naa as geeks. Parker sounded tense. “Delta Base to Honcho One. Cloud cover closing. Request permission to fire.”
Booly opened his mouth and found that the words came of their own volition. “Honcho One to Delta Base. Permission denied. Repeat . . . permission denied.”
Parker pulled his hand away
from a button and leaned back in his chair. His face was expressionless. A tech said, “Aw, shit. We had the geeks right where we wanted them and the captain lets them go! Maybe what I heard was right . . . maybe he takes after his mother.”
The swivel chair squeaked as it turned. No one saw Parker pull the pistol, it just appeared in his hand. The tech looked down the barrel and straight into the jaws of hell. The gunnery sergeant smiled. It was not a pretty sight. “Yes, as a matter of fact the captain does take after his mother. Have you got a problem with that?”
The sunlight disappeared as the clouds closed in. In spite the fact that the Naa might be innocent hunters Booly doubted that they were. There were too many of them, for one thing, especially since there was damned little game at these elevations. No, they were up to something, all right, and he wanted to know what it was. The exchange with Parker had taken place on the command channel, which meant that his scouts were unaware of the danger. He switched to the team frequency. The platoon had continued uphill and he adjusted the range accordingly. “Honcho One to Honcho team . . . We have what might be hostiles three-quarters of a mile southeast of our position. Trooper Ils close on me . . . we’re going in.
“Squads Two and Three will take cover and fire on my command. Squad One will turn and guard our rear. Quad One will Support Squad One.”
Booly heard three acknowledgments as the squad leaders checked in, saw three Trooper Ils close in around him, and pointed upwards. “The trail switchbacks up ahead and curves to the right. The hostiles are on the other side of the valley about halfway up. They’ll have a clean shot at us the moment we clear those wind-bent trees. The faster we go the less bullets we take. Questions?”
There were no questions so Booly gave the order to move, and hung on for dear life. A Trooper II could achieve speeds of up to fifty miles per hour flat out, and even though she was moving uphill, Helmo was up to thirty-five miles per hour in no time at all. But the ride was far from smooth and it took strength, skill, and a harness to hang on.
Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle Page 27
