by Rick Shelley
Memories came. Joe remembered playing soldiers as a child on Bancroft. As often as not, his gun had been a tree limb scavenged from the woods near his home. There was little in the way of a toy industry on Bancroft. Back then, at least, he qualified with a smile. And his war games had often been anachronistic by thousands of years. Mankind might have spread far from Earth, but he carried old histories, old legends and myths, along with him. As often as not, the war games on Bancroft had been Cowboys and Indians, and Joe had been Sitting Bull directing the attack on Custer at Little Big Horn.
The alternative had been Space Jockeys, running around pretending he had a compact space fighter under his control, laser guns blasting alien creatures out of the universe–bug-eyed monsters with mouths large enough to eat a small human in two bites.
But there were no intelligent aliens, or any alien races that might qualify as BEMs. At least, none had ever been found, in all of the hundreds of star systems that humans had explored. No intelligent aliens, no artifacts of defunct alien civilizations. Life was found in abundance, plant and animal, but none of it smart enough to rival man.
That had always made Joe sad, when he was young, to think that humans were all alone in the galaxy. When he was young, and now–but only at times like this, when he had too much time to think.
One foot in front of the other.
* * *
Van Stossen walked with his men. He was, he knew, far too close to the front of the column, trailing along behind Echo Company with his headquarters security detachment. Dezo Parks was across the valley. The rest of the staff was divided between the two columns.
The colonel had more than enough to keep his mind occupied, off of the slogging along. He was on the radio more than he was off of it, checking with company commanders, and trying to get some idea of what that Heggie reinforced regiment was up to. First and third recon were only in occasional contact with them. After Afghan Battery was cut up, the reccers had had little choice but to play their mission as coyly as possible, darting in and out, moving quickly and in what they hoped would be unexpected directions.
The Heggies were on the move. They knew where the convoy of APCs was. Twice, flights of Boems had attacked the empty Heyers, destroying a few more each time. But there had been no ground combat. No Heggies had been able to look inside the wreckage of a Heyer and discover that it wasn’t loaded with troops.
A few more hours, Stossen thought, his own wish for the night. Give us a chance to at least get those people. He didn’t want to think too hard on what might have to come then. He would carry out the extreme option if he had to–even if he had to kill the researchers personally. But he hoped for a way to avoid that. That occupied more than half of his radio time, as he talked with Bal, Dezo, and Teu. Even on the move, he had them working on their mapboards and on the radio with CIC, plotting possible escape routes. Get in and out–away from this valley. Find some way to avoid interception. Worry about getting back to the lines later. Much later if necessary. And possible.
This mountain range continued almost forever, it seemed. The chain went on for nearly two thousand kilometers, with a few breaks. At one point, the chain was eight-hundred kilometers wide. Much of that land was completely unsettled, unexplored. The Accord settlers hadn’t found it necessary to go traipsing through much of that, and the Schlinal occupying force certainly hadn’t bothered. They were only interested in what had already been found and exploited. The 13th could move into areas that were out of reach of Schlinal air power, to terrain far too rugged for tracked vehicles to approach. That might mean abandoning the Havocs and all of the support vans, but it could be done. It would preserve most of the 13th. But that would only work, in the long run, if the Accord somehow held on and won the campaign for Jordan. If the rest of the invasion force were destroyed or forced to evacuate, all the 13th would be able to do was postpone their own capture or destruction. For months, perhaps, but certainly not long enough for the Accord to mount another, even more powerful, invasion force.
And that would mean the loss of whatever research those people had been doing inside Telchuk Mountain.
ZEL PAITCHER had slept, for nearly five hours. The sleep patch might not have been necessary, but the wing medtech had insisted. Zel hadn’t been in very good shape when he and Irv Albans returned from their last mission of the evening.
Slee was dead. Zel had battered himself with that throughout the remainder of the flight. His mind had replayed Slee’s last seconds over and over. They had been wingmen for nearly a year, but more than that, they had been friends, closer than brothers. Zel had brothers, and he knew that he had never been as tight with them as he had been with Slee.
An explosion. There wouldn’t be enough of Slee left to make a pickup, if pickup ever proved possible on Jordan. Zel had, of course, logged the exact position. When the time for such things came, if it ever did, people would go out there to retrieve whatever remains they might find. It probably would not be much, but Slee Reston would be brought “home”–back to some common burial ground for fallen soldiers on Jordan if not back to his own homeworld.
A sleep patch with its four hours of guaranteed oblivion. Almost another hour of natural sleep. But even that had ended.
Zel woke lying on his back under his Wasp. Camouflaged thermal tarps covered everything. What remained of Blue Flight–three Wasps of the original eight–was down, at least for the remainder of the night. After that . . .
For just an instant after he woke, Zel’ s mind remained blissfully blank of memory. He was staring up at the underside of his Wasp. In the dark, the contours of the black fighter were invisible. Black on black, almost impossible to see even from no more than eighty centimeters away. The Wasp hid the sky and sheltered Zel from the continuing rain, now no more than a persistent drizzle.
The smell of wet earth, rich and sweet, caught Zel’s attention. The novelty brought just an instant’s amusement. Zel had been born and raised in the largest town on his homeworld. “Wild” smells had never touched him before as this one did. It was a welcome distraction until Zel realized that that was all it was–a distraction, something to keep his thoughts from returning immediately to his loss.
“Slee.” He whispered the name so softly that no one could possibly have heard, but it was a whisper, more than a thought. This wasn’t the first time that he had lost comrades in combat. It had happened before even here on Jordan. It had happened on Porter . . . and even back in training. But those losses could not compare to this one.
Memory brought back the emptiness, the ache. Tears rose in Zel’s eyes. He brushed at them, slowly, then took a deep breath and rolled toward the front of his plane. There was no time for a proper period of mourning. There was still a war to be fought, and what remained of Blue Flight would soon be sent back up to take its part in the battle.
Zel didn’t roll completely out from under his Wasp right away. It was still dark, and raining. He took a moment to orient himself. Then he scooted out, stood up, and made a quick dash over to where the support van was parked. Its outline was just barely visible at twenty meters.
Irv Albans and Jase Wilmer, the other two remaining pilots of Blue Flight, were standing together under an awning–a thermal tarp–draped off the side of the van. Jase’s Wasp had been the one grounded by mechanical failure. It had been, somehow, repaired in the field, and was ready to go again.
“Get some coffee into you, Zel,” Irv said. “Then call Major Tarkel.” Goz Tarkel was the commander of the 13th’s air wing, the only senior officer who had remained behind.
“What’s the Goose want with me?” Zel asked as Jase handed him a mug of steaming coffee–prepared right there in the support van.
Irv hesitated before he said, “You’re Blue one now,” very softly.
That brought Zel to a full stop for a moment. The knot in his stomach seemed to double in size. Finally, he took a too-long drink of the hot coff
ee. It scalded his mouth but did serve to get him thinking again.
“Sorry, Zel,” Irv said. “I know how close you were.” Irv had been with Blue Flight since before Porter. Jase had joined the 13th after that campaign–replacing another dead pilot.
“Yeah.” Zel couldn’t think of anything else to say. He took a more cautious sip of coffee. Somehow, the crew chiefs always managed to find real coffee to brew when the rest of the 13th had to make do with the reproductions that molecular replicators came up with. Nanofactured food and drink was supposed to be identical to its “natural” prototypes, but, somehow, that never worked with coffee. Zel could always tell the difference.
He took time to enjoy at least the first half of his coffee before he put on his helmet and called the major. Pilots’ helmets weren’t as heavily equipped with radio channels as mudder helmets–the Wasps carried the bulk of their communications gear–but there were a few channels available.
“You got that sleep patch worked out of your system?” Major Tarkel asked. The Goose sounded as if he were still more than half-asleep.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. You’re Blue Flight commander now. You’ve got . . . twenty-seven minutes. Blue Flight is going out to the 13th. You’ll operate from there for the time being. Major Parks will be your immediate boss while you’re out there. He’ll tell you what they need.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good luck, Zel.”
Good luck. We’ll need it, Zel thought as he took his helmet back off. He glanced at his watch, as he had when the major gave him twenty-seven minutes. Twenty-six now. He told the others what they had to look forward to.
“Sounds hairy,” Jase said.
“You can bet on it,” Zel said, draining his mug. Irv took the mug and refilled it. “Slee and I talked about it before . . . “ That brought an awkward pause. To cover it, Zel waited for the second cup of coffee and his first sip from it. “When we heard that some of the support crews would be out there. We’ll play hell getting even fifteen minutes to sleep if we’ve got to keep hopping around with the mudders. The only time we’ll be able to count on staying down longer than it takes to service the Wasps is when–if–they settle down, and even then only if there’s no immediate threat that needs us in the air. I hope both of you managed to get some sleep tonight.”
“We did,” Irv said. “After you were out, the major told us to sack out as long as we could, that we wouldn’t be going up before morning.” He looked at the sky. “I guess this is as close to morning as we get.” Dawn was still nearly an hour away.
Zel moved to the edge of the awning. The rain was slackening off even more. It was hardly more than a heavy dew now. At least the sky was heavy enough to keep any sounds of war at a distance. The pilots were far enough from the front lines that they couldn’t hear any small arms fire, and even after listening closely for a couple of minutes, Zel didn’t hear anything heavier than that.
“Heard anything about the fighting here?” he asked.
“Nothing close,” Irv said. “For the rest . . .” He shook his head. There was just barely enough illumination in the night sky for Zel to see the gesture. “All we get is rumors, confusing and contradictory.”
“Nothing very good,” Jase said. “The big talk is that we might have to evacuate Jordan.”
“Give up?” Zel asked.
“Give up,” Irv confirmed. All of the pilots knew that the invasion had not gone according to plan. By now, there was supposed to be nothing left to do but finish mopping up any last pockets of enemy resistance. It was a sour joke, when there was time for jokes.
“If you haven’t eaten, now’s the time,” Zel said after a minute.
It was hard for him to start thinking like a flight leader. Ever since joining the 13th, he had been Slee Reston’s wingman. Slee had made the decisions for both of them, back when they were Blue three and Blue four, and then Slee had gained the entire wing when he became Blue one and Zel became Blue two.
Zel didn’t want to be Blue one. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to be succeeding his best friend; he simply didn’t want to be responsible for other pilots.
“We ate once,” Irv said. “We were waiting for you to get up before we had another breakfast. You’d better get a couple of meals in you while you’ve got the chance. Mealtimes might be few and far between once we’re out hopping around with the mudders.”
Zel nodded, absently. He moved around to the rear of the van. There was a case of meal packs there. He picked two and pulled the self-heating strip on one of them. Appetite or not, he had to eat.
* * *
Although he did not check the time immediately, Gene Abru had no doubt that he had awakened precisely at the end of the two hours he had allotted for sleep. He was alert even before he opened his eyes, listening to the sounds of the late night. Then he lifted his head just enough to look to either side. The other members of his team were also waking, and going through much the same routine as Gene–almost totally silent. There were no loud yawns, no creaking of bones as men stretched.
There was nothing to be seen around them but the scattered trees. Not even a single animal seemed to be moving anywhere near them. If there were any birds on the wing, they were silent and could not be seen. The ridge line above the SI team was clearly silhouetted now. On the far side of the mountain, morning dusk would already be well advanced. Dawn would not be far off.
“Eat fast,” Gene said, just loud enough to be certain that the others would hear. He was already pulling a meal pack out for himself. It took ten seconds to warm up after he pulled the strip. He wouldn’t have bothered except that the strip also served to open the pack. By the time those ten seconds had elapsed, Gene was already chewing his second mouthful. He sat hunched over, trying to keep as much of the drizzle as possible from finding its way into his food. With his visor tipped up and the meal pack held close to his face, he was mostly successful.
He was the first finished. Using his knife, he scooped out a small hole and buried his trash. The others did the same. The covered-over holes were camouflaged as best they could be in the waning dark. There was little chance that anyone would stumble over the buried refuse.
Gene took time to check his rifle and pistol, then got to his feet. The rifle was an Armanoc zipper, the same carbine that most of the infantry carried. The pistol used the same sort of rocket-assisted projectile as the Dupuy cough gun. Each of the men had the same pair of weapons, plus knives and an assortment of grenades and “special” explosives.
Once they were all on their feet, Abru simply nodded to the others, then started walking. He figured that they would need about twenty minutes to get into place. He had a special channel available on his helmet radio. That was reserved for one purpose . . . and one-time use. When they got close, he would use it to tell the people inside the lab that they were there, that it was time to go. That notice was mostly to keep anyone inside from shooting when the SI team appeared.
Nine people, Gene reminded himself. They had been told that there were nine people waiting for pickup, the three primary researchers and their six assistants. If they found more than nine, something was wrong–dangerously wrong. It might not be wise to shoot first and ask questions later, but the temptation would be there. And if there were fewer than nine people waiting, Gene would want to know what had happened, see a body if there was a body to be seen. Being suspicious came naturally to Gene Abru. He had been that way long before his assignment to Special Intelligence had made it a matter of survival.
The team walked single file now, each man stepping, as far as possible, exactly where the man in front of him had stepped. That was standard drill. If an enemy should happen to find their trail, it would be impossible to guess exactly how many men had passed.
It took no more than ten minutes to reach the shoulder of the mountain. Gene stopped and went prone, bringing up his binoculars
to get a better look at the narrow break in the side of the mountain that concealed the entrance to the secret lab . . . and to get a long look at all of the approaches. From this vantage, he could see a lot of the valley. There were no signs of any large force lying in wait. Gene still did not discount the possibility of ambush, or treachery. He took as long as he dared to scout out the terrain. This close, he thought he could even see the doorway to the lab, but he wasn’t 100 percent certain. It was concealed well, back under an overhang, in what was almost a cave.
Damn good planning, he thought, with grudging respect for the forethought that had gone into the planning and construction of the lab. Remarkable for a world that had been at peace at the time. Before the Schlinal Hegemony had started its military push into Accord space.
And, once more, the thought intruded: Just what the hell are they working on that took so much secrecy? If there were time, even thirty seconds, Gene knew that he would look around for any obvious clues. He didn’t really expect to see much. If the lab itself were likely to give away the secrets of the researchers, he would have had orders to blow it up, not just to get the people out. Or dispose of them.
Maybe the researchers had already prepared explosives. With all of the care that had gone into selecting the location, Gene had to admit that some provision might well have been made for its destruction, but he couldn’t really make himself believe it. That was too much to expect on a world that had never known war.
Gene let out a slow breath and slid away from where he had made his observations. It was time to go over the final details of the plan with the others.
