Kingdoms Fury

by David Sherman

  "Pleased to meet you, Brigadier," Foderov said. He bowed slightly as Sturgeon shook his hand. The other engineering officers did as well. The chiefs grinned but didn't bow—despite his rank, they recognized Sturgeon as a fellow working man.

  Engineering Mate Second Class Goldman beamed when Sturgeon shook his hand. "Sir, I helped modify an armored vacuum suit for one of your Marines at Avionia," he said proudly. The navy officers exchanged glances; they didn't know anything about Avionia.

  "So, you're the one? I got a good report about you," Sturgeon said, giving Goldman's hand a squeeze.

  Goldman managed not to grimace at the strength in Sturgeon's grip. "Yessir."

  "Better be careful. Sometimes, when we Marines think a sailor is good enough, we take him from the navy."

  Goldman grinned weakly. He had no desire to go into harm's way with the Marines. The navy was so much safer. The officers and chiefs chuckled nervously; they suspected Sturgeon was serious.

  The other introductions went quickly and then Sturgeon turned to Borland. "You and your officers didn't hear any of that business about Avionia. I'm not even cleared to know it, and it was my people."

  The commodore cleared his throat. "Well, gentlemen, we are here for a purpose," he said, changing the subject. "Brigadier, Engineering has a program for you."

  "Sir, if you will sit here." Foderov indicated a chair. Borland and the other officers sat in chairs to its sides. The chiefs remained in front of the table, blocking Sturgeon's view of the object on it. Coffee and biscuits were at Sturgeon's chair. Goldman worked controls on the trid unit, the wardroom's lights dimmed, and a display resolved above the unit.

  A planet revolved under a scattering of stars. When Sturgeon looked at the planet's pattern of white, blue, and green he recognized it as Earth. A large, tubular object moved into view, its long axes aligned with the revolving planet. With nothing to use as a measure, Sturgeon couldn't judge its size, though he had the impression it was somewhat larger than an Essay.

  "Sir," Commander Foderov said, "half a millennium ago humanity was still restricted to one world, fragmented into a plethora of nation states, and wracked with wars. The most powerful of those nation states, the United States of America, developed a weapon of devastating power. This weapon, called a rail gun, used electromagnets to project an inert chunk of metal at ten percent of the speed of light. On impact the kinetic energy of the projectile was tremendous. Inexpensive munitions could be used to knock out armored vehicles." The display changed to a massive, early twenty-first century armored vehicle speeding across a plain. It was struck by what appeared to be a bolt of light from above and the display momentarily whited out. When it cleared, only a crater in the ground remained. "A rail gun could destroy power plants with one shot." The display changed again, to an industrial-looking structure that Sturgeon assumed was an early twenty-first century power plant. A flash of light speared down onto it and the display whited again. When it cleared, bits of wall were left standing around a steaming crater.

  "Rail guns," Foderov continued, "were excellent at taking out large, hardened targets." The trid moved rapidly through a series of displays: a ship at sea lost its entire middle third and sank; an armored tunnel entrance was demolished; a mobile artillery piece vanished, leaving only a crater to mark where it had stood; the main building of an industrial complex went the way of the earlier power plant; some sort of surface-to-orbit vehicle was sundered into a ball of debris. After a few more examples, the display returned to the cylindrical object in orbit.

  "But the rail gun had major problems," Foderov said, resuming his narrative. "It required huge amounts of energy, it took so much time to reload and aim that it required up to half an hour between shots. And it was big, so big that it wasn't readily usable on the planetary surface—it could only be used from orbit, which created additional problems. Crews had to be rotated and resupply runs made—not for energy, though, an orbital rail gun got its energy from early, primitive solar cells. The crew and supply runs could be vulnerable to interception." The trid displayed a rising rocket disintegrating as it was struck by beams of coherent light from the planet's surface. "As you saw in the demonstrations, the rail gun was a point weapon—it needed precise data on a target's location. It took too long to reload and aim to be effective against an armored formation, and was even less effective against infantry. No one ever figured out how to make a small, mobile rail gun that could be reloaded and aimed rapidly. By the middle of the twenty-first century the device was abandoned. Second." He addressed the last to Goldman, who turned the lights back on and the trid off.

  "Sir," Foderov said, "the Skinks figured it out. That is the barrel of a rapid-fire, mobile, rail gun." He gestured, and the three chief petty officers moved from the table so Sturgeon could see the object it held, the barrel Lieutenant Eggers brought back from the Skink supply depot.

  What am I supposed to do with that? Sturgeon wondered. Maybe the navy had some ideas of what he could do with the information that would save the lives of his Marines. He asked.

  "It uses large amounts of energy," Foderov said. "We're working to determine whether it radiates an energy signature before it fires. Unfortunately," he looked at the barrel, "we don't have a power source for it. We know what kind of leakage and signatures the twenty-first century rail guns gave off, but we don't know about this."

  Borland broke in. "The Surveillance Division is analyzing the records of the actions in which we suspect the rail guns were used. Once we get that data identified and isolated, the string-of-pearls can monitor for the signatures, and the Grandar Bay's lasers will be able to knock the rail guns out before they fire."

  Sturgeon cocked an eyebrow; he doubted the navy would be able to knock out more than a fraction of the rail guns before they fired. But any help was better than none. "How long will it take to identify and isolate?"

  "I put S and R on it as soon as Engineering identified the rail gun. Actually, I had expected them to have it in time for this briefing."

  "Let me know as soon as they do. We'll coordinate a trap for a rail gun."

  "I look forward to working with you on that."

  "Now I need to return planetside. I have a war to run."

  As he strapped himself into the webbing in the Dragon that would ride an Essay back to Kingdom's surface, Sturgeon reflected that while it was nice to know what that hellacious weapon was and that the navy was working on a way to counter it, that knowledge did nothing for him right now. He felt the trip to orbit had been a waste of time and effort; the navy could have transmitted the same information to him in a secure message less than fifteen words long.

  A message, not much longer than fifteen words, arrived shortly after his Essay landed outside Interstellar City. S&R had identified and isolated what they believed was the radiation signature of a rail gun. The Grandar Bay's Laser Gunnery Division was anxious to utilize its skills and weapons to start taking them out.

  Previous operations had identified four entrances to the underground complex that were guarded by rail guns. The Marines' Dragons had barely been used, since they had proved to be so vulnerable to the rail guns in the Swamp of Perdition. Sturgeon decided to sacrifice one to test the Grandar Bay's Laser Gunnery Division. He assigned the job to 34th FIST and coordinated with the navy.

  This is crazy, Corporal Claypoole told himself for the umpteenth time since Captain Conorado and the captain from FIST operations met with third platoon to brief them on the mission. How many divisions do the Skinks have out here, and we're one lousy platoon?

  He heard the rumble, muted by intervening trees, of Dragons about half a kilometer to the west. The Dragons Claypoole heard were empty; the crews that drove them and, if the opportunity arose, would fire their guns, were safe in bunkers in the Marine encampment outside Interstellar City. The civilian engineers in the off-worlder colony had worked round the clock for more than thirty-six hours to design, construct, and install remote piloting systems for three Dragons. They wer
e much chagrined that Brigadier Sturgeon hadn't allowed them time to field-test the systems—he insisted the operation be set in motion at the earliest possible moment. Maneuver for the Dragons was just a touch slower than normal, and the guns' response time would also be a tad laggardly because the commands radioed to the Dragons were relayed by the string-of-pearls.

  Corporal Claypoole toggled on the fire team circuit. "Wolfman, got anything on your mover?" In his infra he saw Lance Corporal MacIlargie wading through the marsh ten meters to his front, but he couldn't see the motion detector attached to the front of Wolfman's chameleons. MacIlargie moved a bit gingerly. The wound he'd received a few days earlier was still sore.

  "Only us and the Dragons, Rock," MacIlargie answered. "Not even any animals."

  "You didn't look at it," Claypoole complained.

  "I'm listening to it."

  "Look at it. How do you know you're hearing it right?"

  MacIlargie made a noise that Claypoole translated as asshole, but he pulled the motion detector off his chest and flipped up the cover to look at the display. "It still only shows us and the Dragons," he said.

  "What scale?"

  "What?"

  "What scale are you looking at?" Claypoole sounded annoyed.

  MacIlargie expelled a breath. "One klick." The detector showed all movement in a one square kilometer area.

  "Increase scale, show ten klicks." Claypoole sounded nervous.

  MacIlargie looked around. "Someone that far away isn't going to run into us."

  "Check it anyway!" Claypoole ordered in a rising tone.

  "All right, all right." MacIlargie made the adjustment. "Still only shows us and the Dragons."

  "You're sure?"

  MacIlargie stopped and turned toward his fire team leader. "You want to look at it yourself? What's the matter, Rock? You're acting like somebody's grandmother." He held the motion detector out where the display was visible to Claypoole.

  "Cover that!" Claypoole snapped.

  The display vanished as MacIlargie snapped the chameleoned cover shut. Muttering to himself, MacIlargie faced front and resumed his movement. He touched the controls on the motion detector and returned it to the one klick setting.

  Claypoole wasn't the only Marine in third platoon who was on edge. The last time the platoon had been there, it was one of eighteen platoons in the wetlands; this time it was the only one. And last time there wasn't a big, inviting target nearby like the three Dragons half a klick away.

  Lance Corporal Schultz, on point as always, paid a lot more attention to his right front and flank than he did his front or left. The Dragons and their noise—he knew they were there to draw the Skinks' attention—were to his left. He knew the Skinks didn't need to be close to hit the Dragons; they had weapons that could take them out from a distance. He was afraid that when the Skinks fired, they'd fire from the right—through him. The Skinks would use that big gun, the big brother of the buzz saws, to hit the Dragons. He'd seen what was left of a Dragon after it was hit by one of those things in the Swamp of Perdition. Something with that much striking power could atomize a man and maybe not even notice it hit something. He knew it was a line-of-sight weapon and that it had a totally flat trajectory, just like the blasters did. Whatever its range, it was more than half a klick. If it fired from the right, Schultz knew he was right in its path. So he watched to the right more than to the front or the left. If the Skink gun was in that direction, maybe he'd sense something and have time to hit the deck before he got pulverized. And maybe geese migrated north in winter.

  Corporal Doyle would have been catatonic if only Corporal Kerr would let him lay down on one of those nice bits of dry land that edged above the water all over the place. But no, Corporal Kerr kept on him about moving ahead and maintaining contact with Schultz. Why did he have to maintain contact with Schultz? He didn't want to follow Schultz. Schultz always went places that were dangerous. Doyle didn't want to go anyplace dangerous; he was supposed to be a clerk. It was some kind of horrible mistake that he was out in that marsh following Schultz in a mad search for Skinks and their monstrous weapons. All his eliminatory sphincters would have let go and emptied his bladder and bowel, except that they were already empty—they gave out when the orders came down for third platoon to accompany the Dragons, and he hadn't been able to hold anything down since.

  "Keep moving, Doyle," Corporal Kerr said on the fire team circuit. Kerr was secretly glad Doyle was in his fire team. Doyle's fear and his constant need to be reminded to pay attention were the only things that distracted Kerr from the motion detector he carried. Somewhere inside, Kerr knew that if he was glued to the motion detector, he could well miss something else and get killed because of it. Still, he listened too hard to the motion detector and looked at its display far too often. He tried not to flash on the Siad horsemen—horsemen!—who had almost killed him on Elneal. The Skinks were far more deadly than the Siad could ever have been. Kerr strained to break his concentration on the motion detector. He knew he had to give his own senses and his hard-earned combat savvy a chance to keep him alive.

  At the rear of the platoon column Corporal Dean was keenly aware of how Company M had been mauled by Skinks who hid in the water and didn't attack until the Marines had passed them. He and Lance Corporal Godenov walked backward, looking forward only often enough to keep from tripping over objects in their path. PFC Quick, his third man, had a tough job. Quick had to keep contact between them and the rest of the platoon, to make sure they didn't get separated. Quick also monitored the motion detector. Maybe he should have had Godenov walk drag and had Quick back here with him, Dean thought. Godenov was more experienced and could handle both jobs better. But Quick was good too, and Dean wanted those experienced eyes watching the rear with him. Godenov was more likely than Quick to spot something subtle. Maybe the next time they stopped he'd switch them around. But there was no way the Skinks were going to hit third platoon, Company L, the way they hit M Company. Nossir!

  Staff Sergeant Hyakowa wondered what had happened to the Skink patrols that third platoon and so many others had run into a few days earlier. He didn't think it was simply luck that kept the platoon from encountering patrols—the Dragons should have been a magnet for Skink security. Unless the Skinks had something else in store for them. He communicated this thought to Lieutenant Rokmonov, but otherwise kept his concerns to himself.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Brigadier Sturgeon sat at a console in a corner of the MEF operations center, out of the way of his staff. They were monitoring everything: the movement of the Dragons, of Company L's third platoon, and of the sensors in third platoon's area of operation. He'd chosen the area for the mission precisely because it had been seeded with a full array of sensors. His staff was in constant communication with the Grandar Bay's string-of-pearls monitors and Laser Gunnery Division. The displays on his console and the earpiece he wore kept him in constant touch with everything that was happening—or not happening, as it was turning out.

  Third platoon and the Dragons had been out there for hours. They'd already passed within range of several known entrances to the underground system without incident. They would have to turn and begin the arc back soon. Why weren't the Skinks taking the bait? Sturgeon wondered.

  "Mudmen, this is Skyboy," a voice said over the string-of-pearls circuit. Sturgeon held his earpiece tight. "We've got the signature you've been waiting for. Details coming."

  Sturgeon saw the coordinates and the location appear on a map. A suspected rail gun was a kilometer and a half north-northeast of the Dragons. If it was giving out a signal, it was probably ready to fire. "Locked on," came another voice. The Laser Gunnery Division was ready.

  The air seemed to crackle, and Schultz, about to step around the end of a long, narrow hummock, dove into the water behind it instead. Behind him the rest of the platoon also went for cover. The concussion wave from the eruption of a Dragon half a kilometer away rippled the water and shook the trees around th
ird platoon. The fans on the surviving Dragons raced faster, louder, and they shot off in evasive movements. Dean raised his head to look forward and saw a lance of light slash down from the zenith to strike somewhere ahead of third platoon. Something exploded where the laser hit.

  "Signature silent," the string-of-pearls reported.

  Cheering burst out in the Marine operations center. Officers and NCOs congratulated each other, slapped each other's backs, shook hands.

  Brigadier Sturgeon didn't join in the celebratory reaction. How many more of those things do they have? was the question on his mind. Killing one gun wasn't enough cause for celebration. He sidestepped the chain of command and radioed directly to third platoon.

  "Patch me into the all-hands circuit," he ordered. When he was on, he said, "This is Brigadier Sturgeon. We just lost a Dragon, but that was deliberate. There was nobody on that Dragon, no Marines were lost. In return, we killed one of the Skink main guns. Now we know how to kill them when they're ready to fire. I want you to go in farther and see if you can get more of those guns to expose themselves. Good hunting. Sturgeon out."

  He looked across the room to where the crews of the Dragons sat at their control stations. All nine Marines were looking back at him. They hadn't joined in the celebration: it didn't matter to them that no Marines were injured when the Dragon was destroyed—that Dragon was one of theirs. He got up and walked over to them.

  "This time let's see if you can kill one of those guns before it gets another Dragon," he said softly.

  The nine Marines smiled grimly at him. "Yessir," one of them said. "Where do you want us to go?"

  He told them, then went back to his console and told the string-of-pearls monitors what he wanted them to do. The cheering and backslapping stopped and everybody returned to the job that needed to be finished.