Deadly Squad (Logan Ryvenbark's Saga Book 3)

by Gray Lanter

  For a second, the confident young lady before me looked a bit edgy. I didn’t think edginess was a major part of her personality.

  “I don’t believe you have some shadowy, sinister reason for joining, so just tell me your second reason for joining up,” I said.

  She gave a quick, embarrassed smile.

  “Lt. Rico Diamond, sir. He’s in your squad.”

  She let that hang in the air.

  “Care to share a little more?”

  “We are engaged, sir. But I wasn’t sure you’d accept that as a good reason for wanting to join the Rangers.”

  “Nonsense. I’m a sentimentalist. I’m a strong believer in love. Engaged? When’s the marriage date?”

  “Today, sir. We thought we better get married before we leave port. No telling when we’ll get back. That is, sir, if you approve my application.”

  I smiled. “Call the chaplain. You’re approved. But you have less than an hour to get married. Find a chaplain who talks fast.”

  Her high-beam smile lit up my office.

  “By the way, there was a Col. Tagashi in the military when I served. He was in the intelligence division. Any relation?”

  “I have the honor to be his daughter, sir.”

  “He’s a very fine officer and a very fine man. If I remember he was also more than a passable singer. He could hold a tune. Did you inherit his singing ability?”

  “Some people say so, sir. And I can give you a great rendition of ‘My Tennessee Mountain Home’.”

  I smiled. “We’ll postpone that since you have a date with the chaplain. But during our voyage I would like to hear it. Welcome to the Rangers. And may you and Lt. Diamond be very happy!”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  As she walked out, Rab walked in and saluted.

  “Would the major like to inspect the MITTs before we take off?”

  I still don’t know why we call our military robots MITTs. Should be MIROs. Military robots, Maybe MITTs simply rolls easier off the tongue. I always wondered if it was a typo that became embedded in military jargon.

  “Why should I? Don’t they look about the same as the last time I saw them?”

  Sometimes a master sergeant has to control his disbelief. Rab did a pretty good job of it. I noticed only the slightest twitch of his lips. They had formed a sarcastic smile for a split second and then straightened back out. There was no disbelief in his voice as he answered.

  “Probably, sir. But most commanders like to take a quick look at them before we move out.”

  “At times I wonder why I should observe tradition,” I said. “Anyway, lead on.”

  We walked out, got into an elevator and dropped about five stories. I was glad Rab knew his way around the corridors. I would have gotten lost. Had doors sliding open and closing all the way to our destination. The final door dilated and I walked into a room with about fifty of the MITTs.

  They did look about the same as the last time I checked them. All are about six feet six and had been built with a silver metal. They had been turned off. So all held their brown laser gun in silver fingers. If we plugged them in – a phrase their techno-designers really despise – they would start moving. Actually they salute much better than regular soldiers and they always say ‘sir’. What is a bit unnerving about them is when they open their eyelids, their eyes look human. Human eyes staring out of a metallic, and very strong, body. I have no idea why they were designed that way. I would have done it differently but I’m not military robotic designer. When they clicked alert and stood at attention I assumed Rab had pulled a computer level somewhere. One walked out from the others and saluted.

  “Ready to proceed, Major Ryvenbark.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’m sure we will be calling on your services.”

  “We are proud to be a part of Ryvenbark’s Rangers.”

  The voice held so much emotion and passion I almost believed him.

  “We’re glad to have you here.”

  He saluted and marched back into line, then went still. I assumed Rab had unplugged them again. When he walked up to me, I nodded.

  “They look fine.”

  “Think we’ll put them to use on this assignment?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not. I hope we find Belen’s team. After we snatch them up, we head home. No trouble. No shot fired in anger.”

  “When has that ever happened?”

  “There’s always a first time, Rab.”

  “I hope so.”

  As we walked back to the elevator he cleared his throat.

  “By the way, sir. Weren’t you going to retire?”

  “I did, for about a week. It got a bit dull.”

  “Have a bad golf game?”

  “Well, that too. Couldn’t hit a thing. Actually, Astrid told me she was surprised I lasted that long.”

  “Good to have you back. You sort of get used to the same commanding officer. You don’t want to change. So hard to break a new one in.”

  “I can imagine,” I said, as the elevator doors closed behind us.

  CHAPTER 3

  The hyper-lightspeed velocity of the ship didn’t bother the great Boston Red Sox slugger Ted Williams as he stepped up to the plate. I had the game on a fifty-inch screen and settled back in my black cushioned executive office chair. When you’re the commander you get one of those. Williams, thin as a toothpick, was nicknamed the ‘Splendid Splinter’. His career in the major leagues was shortened by two tours in the United States Army, the second coming in the Korean War when the army needed pilots. Williams was a good one but he was bitter about the two years spent in Korea. He figured his duty to his country had been done. I sympathized with him. Without losing those two years, his Hall of Fame numbers would have been even higher. He whisked his bat around. He was facing the almost equally great Warren Spahn, one of the best left-handers the Atlanta Braves ever had and one of the best left-handers in the history of baseball. Spahn had some of his best years when the Braves remained in Milwaukee. They had finished first in the National League twice in the late nineteen fifties and won one World Series.

  Spahn had a challenge. After facing Williams, he would pitch to Carl Yastrzemski, another hall of famer that played in the nineteen sixties and seventies. Yastrzemski almost carried his team to victory in the 1967 World Series. But while he hit more than 400 against the fantastic fast-baller Bob Gibson, the rest of his teammates were almost shut out. They couldn’t produce any runs in the last game which the Red Sox lost.

  Spahn wound up and threw a curve that edged over the plate. Williams pounded it and it soared over first base dropping just an inch on the wrong side of the white foul line. If it had hit the chalk, Williams would have had a double, at least. I figured Spahn would toss another curve or change-up. It was extremely difficult to get Williams out on a fast ball. He was so quick he could get around on almost all fast balls. To get the ball into the catcher’s mitt, Spahn would have to make sure there was plenty of movement on it. His next pitch was fast and had movement but it just missed the plate as it slammed into the catcher’s glove.

  For his next pitch, Spahn tried another curve but Williams swung quickly and drove it into left field. It rolled to the fence. Williams was standing on second when the ball was thrown back into the infield.

  For Spahn it was not a good way to begin an inning. Now he had to face Yaz. In his career, he had never faced a lineup like this. The best players from the 20th, 21st, and 22nd Red Sox teams. Of course, the Red Sox pitcher would have to face the best players from the Braves during that time period.

  “You realize that is not why the military created these ultra-ultra-ultra-ultra-sophisticated war machines,” Astrid said, as she walked in. “They were designed for other reasons.”

  “Which shows us the creativity and ingenuity of humans,” I said. “Do you realize you can play the 1927 Philadelphia Athletics against the incredible 2073 Detroit Tigers on this computer and see who would win?”

  “Is that a question
that has been haunting baseball fanatics for a century or so?”

  “Yes, and we can also see who would win in the game between the best players in the history of the Boston/Milwaukee/Atlanta Braves against the best players in the history of the Boston Red Sox.”

  “And who’s winning?”

  “Right now the Red Sox 2-1 but it’s only the third inning.”

  She leaned against the desk and crossed her arms. “You know Logan, I don’t know why the retirement thing didn’t work out. You’d be very happy playing your baseball games during the morning, playing golf in the afternoon and going back to baseball during the evening.”

  “Wow! Very good!” I yelled, as Yaz slammed a double off the center field fence. “Spahn may not have it today.”

  “See what I mean?” Astrid said. “You’d be content with this for years. I could leave for a month and when I’d come back you’d ask, ‘Been away?’”

  I watched Fred Lynn step up to the plate.

  “Not true. In two or three days I’d notice you were missing. Four at the most.”

  Astrid chuckled. She grabbed my face in her hands and laughed. “It’s a good thing that I love you or I’d smack you for that remark.”

  “Yes, I love you too and isn’t modern technology wonderful.”

  “I’m fifty-fifty on the second half of that remark.”

  A grounder to the second baseman was scooped up in a glove and tossed to the first baseman. Williams moved to third on the throw. There was one out but David Ortiz stepped up to the plate. A good-sized man, Ortiz had a quick swing. He was on the Red Sox teams of the first years of the 21st century and was a major reason why Boston won three World Series during a decade. The victory in 2004 was the team’s first World Series win since 1918.

  Managers prefer a right-handed hitter against a left-handed pitcher, although Spahn could usually get left-handers out equally as well in his career. But Ortiz was not the ordinary left-hander.

  Spahn stood on the mound and checked the runner, although Williams wasn’t going to steal home. Not with Ortiz at the plate. Spahn tossed a fastball. Ortiz must have thought it was inside but the umpire called it a strike.

  The intercom buzzed.

  “Shucks,” I said, as I flicked a switch to stop the game. Admiral Nikanawa’s voice came over the speaker.

  “Major, we’ve just had a communication from the expedition team.”

  “What did they say?”

  “The message was garbled and full of static. We could only make out about five words. “Under attack. Send help. Hurry!’’

  CHAPTER 4

  I smoked the cigar in silence. I had lost all interest in the game. I sipped the whisky in my glass.

  Waiting. That’s the most damnable part of this profession. I have scars – or I did before the nanobytes took care of them. Jagged red marks across the chest and back and one long ugly bruise running from thigh to ankle. The medical nanobytes performed microscopic operations and made me young again. Those wounds heal but the more personal wounds do not. When you lose a friend on the battlefield, the nanobytes can’t help. You chalk it up to life, or death, for this is the profession you have chosen and losing friends is one of the risks. One of the defensive machinations is simply to become a loner and refuse to establish friends. It’s understandable but I could never do it.

  That is the toughest part of being a professional soldier. The second toughest is knowing there are people in the distance who need help and it takes at least three days – at the best hyper-light-speed we can manage before you can get to them. You need to mentally departmentalize. Go about your ordinary duties and not think about it, or at least not obsess about it. Because you are totally, absolutely helpless until the ship arrives at its destination.

  I have Christians in my squadron, one of whom saved my life during a long-ago battle. I know they are praying. After our experience on Jardoval I lean toward their faith and, there are times, such as now, when I hope they are correct. It has nothing to do with eternal life. But if they are correct, then prayer can make a difference. If there are spiritual forces in this universe, then Christian belief says you can put them into motion by prayer. You can even, if your faith is strong enough, stop or slow down an attack by who knows what, against fellow humans.

  Medical nanos can do more than repair flesh. At my order they released the low-grade sedatives into the blood stream. We all have them and, to the best of my knowledge, we all use them, except Astrid. She gets along without them. It’s another amazing aspect of her.

  I swallowed the rest of the whisky in the glass and turned the game back on.

  There was nothing else I could do.

  We came out of hyperspace three days later and circled Verdunne. The admiral alerted me that our sensors picked up a disabled ship, the Belarus II. That was Belen’s ship. Sensors revealed something else too. Dead bodies. Wreckage inside. The helm was a twisty mess of metal and wires. Three dozen bodies lay sprawled on various decks. Tragic but there were more than a hundred crewmen and women on the ship. Which meant more than sixty had traveled to the planet. And some of them might still be alive.

  “I assume we are scanning?”

  “We are, sir, and we should have a fix for you soon.”

  I told Rab to have the squadron and the MITTs ready, both groups filed toward the Shuttle Ships. I grabbed my laser rifle and headed to the helm. When I got there, the admiral smiled and saluted.

  “Think we got it for you, major.” He pointed to a huge screen. “Our friends are boxed in. This looks like their last stand.”

  Strategically it was a good place for a last stand. About fifty men and women filed behind a makeshift wall, which looked it was made of shuttle ships. Their back was to one of the oceans on the planet. But two mountain ranges stretched before them and the two left a small opening between them. That’s where the shuttle ships lay, making the makeshift wall. Soldiers, on top of the ships, fired at the advancing invaders. The attackers couldn’t get behind the humans unless they climbed over the mountains. There was only one path – straight down the valley into the human gunfire. But if the invaders made it…

  I studied the advancing group carefully. They were not human. I guessed they were androids or robots. Golden machines firing weapons as they advanced. And they advanced like robots, not like human armies. Robots or androids or cyborgs do not charge an opponent. They simply walk forward. Humans’ armies have always charged and always will. But machines, having no emotion, will walk toward an opposing army.

  From this distance I saw nothing distinctive about these robotic soldiers. I didn’t recognize their weapons, which shot yellow bolts toward the shuttle ships and human opponents. The Gold robots didn’t appear in any great hurry. They didn’t have to be.

  “How many are there?” I asked.

  “About two thousand, major. A couple of other thousand are at various other places on the planet,” the admiral replied.

  “What are they?”

  “That I don’t know. Can’t get much of a reading from them.”

  “OK, pinpoint our weapons and blow them away. I’m taking the shuttles to rescue our squad.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I got to the shuttle as the pilot was taking off. I almost had to jump as the door closed. We zoomed toward the surface. As we left I saw the yellow lasers shoot toward the planet. The Ranger Two had expert marksmen as the Weapons Officers. It’s not easy targeting a small spot of ground from thousands of miles in space but the WOs could do it.