by Rick Shelley
“Tell him about breakfast and see if Major Osterman is up, then get to your own feed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lon waited until he was alone before he permitted himself a yawn that seemed to try to split his face wide open. He stretched, then put his feet on the floor and stood to stretch some more, twisting, trying to pump his mind the last distance up from sleep. He stripped off his underwear and headed into the attached bathroom. This morning, twenty minutes would be tight for getting ready.
At 0615 hours Alpha and Bravo Companies moved from the troop bays to their shuttles. Although there was no sign—yet—of any raider activity on the surface, the entire battalion would go in ready for combat, wearing camouflage battledress and battle helmets, magazines in weapons, but with safeties on and no rounds chambered. Lon moved into the command shuttle with his headquarters detachment just as the first two companies were being sealed into their landers. Charlie and Delta Companies started moving toward their craft five minutes later.
It was a busy time for Lon, so busy that he no longer had time to worry about anything but the essentials. He was in radio contact with the launchmaster, Long Snake’s bridge and CIC, his executive officer, and the company commanders, switching from channel to channel frequently. More rarely he spoke with Governor Sosa, who was seated next to him in the shuttle.
The command shuttle, a model only recently introduced, was smaller than those that carried the line companies. Instead of holding fifty people, it held—at most—thirty, with the same minimal standard of comfort. Slightly faster and more maneuverable, a command shuttle was armed and better equipped for surveillance and reconnaissance.
The hangar holding Bravo’s shuttles was depressurized. The two landers were launched and started their descent, accompanied by the first Shrike fighters that had been launched a few minutes earlier from Taranto. Lon’s shuttle was next out. There would be a delay before Charlie and Delta were launched, and the men of Alpha would remain sealed in their landing craft, in the hangars, until the rest of the battalion was on the ground. That wait would not make for happy soldiers.
Lon had three video monitors placed within comfortable viewing range. The shuttle’s pilots had one showing Long Snake; the second the area approaching Lincoln, which was near the horizon, east of the ship’s position; and the third tracking the two shuttles carrying Bravo Company.
Shuttles were not equipped with Nilssen generators to provide artificial gravity—an unnecessary “luxury,” planners said. Passengers remained strapped in tightly, even during a “cool” landing, where gravity would reassert itself as much as fifteen minutes before the craft touched down.
Governor Sosa sat holding a portable complink, in contact with Government House in Lincoln. Without a Dirigenter battle helmet, he was effectively out of touch with everyone in the shuttle except for Lon. Even without any troubling news coming in, Sosa looked extremely worried. Part of that was just the fact of the shuttle ride. Like many people who rarely experienced zero gravity, Roger Sosa did not like the experience.
“We’ve all got a lot riding on this,” Sosa said when Lon questioned him as the shuttle settled into its glide path for the landing at Lincoln. “I’m past worrying about the political ramifications of failure. If we fail to put an end to these raiders, Bancroft is going to suffer, worse than it already has.”
Lon stared at the governor for a few seconds before replying. He thought Sosa was sincere, but he found it difficult to trust the words of any politician.
“We should have enough going for us, Governor,” Lon said, lifting his faceplate to make it easier for Sosa to hear him.
Sosa did not hear much, though. The command shuttle banked hard to the right and started to accelerate. Lon received a quick alarm from the pilot at the same time.
“We’re under fire from the ground, Colonel. Two missiles tracking us.”
10
Thirty seconds before the attack, the views on the three monitors had all been focused on the ground—the militia base, Bravo’s landers near it, and the closest portion of Lincoln. Once the shuttle pilot started violent evasive maneuvers and accelerated to get altitude, the views on the monitors flashed around so quickly that anyone watching them closely might have become dizzy. Lon gripped the armrests of his seat, fighting against the surge of blood away from his head as the shuttle climbed at more than an eighty-degree angle, trying to escape the two surface-to-air missiles that had been fired at it.
Seconds. The sound of the shuttle’s straining rockets covered any other noise. Lon could not even hear his own heartbeat—which surprised him.
The shuttle flipped sideways, then dove, forcing blood toward Lon’s head and threatening him with a revolt of his stomach. He swallowed hard to keep from vomiting. Governor Sosa did not manage to keep his breakfast down. It spurted. He dropped his complink. It flew away from him, a missile to ricochet around the passenger compartment.
One of the Shrikes dove in behind the shuttle, its multibarrel cannon firing at the two missiles. It detonated one of the small rockets. The other lost its fix on the shuttle and climbed until it ran out of fuel, giving another Shrike the chance to explode it before it could fall back to the ground.
The shuttle banked around again and the pilot cut the rockets, switched on the jets, and worked to slow the craft for a landing. This time the pilot did not concern himself with a gentle landing. He wanted to get his aircraft, and his passengers, on the ground as quickly as possible.
Lon heard the details, but late. As the shuttle braked to a stop near the southern wall of the militia base—scattering most of the welcoming committee—he was still receiving updates, piped straight through to him from the Shrike pilots, who had gone hunting the shooters on the ground. The two SAMs had been launched from within a mile of Lincoln.
The instant the shuttle stopped, Lon hit the release on his safety harness and staggered to his feet, still dizzy from the aerial gyrations. He spread his feet, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and then—carefully—leaned over to help Governor Sosa get out of his harness. Sosa appeared far more shaken. He still gripped his armrests as if he thought the shuttle were still in the air, maneuvering wildly.
“Come on, Governor. We need to get out of the box, in case there’s more trouble,” Lon said, half-lifting Sosa from his seat.
Sosa’s eyes did not focus as their gaze crossed Lon’s face. They started to rotate upward, and the governor started to black out. His knees buckled. Lon caught him and dragged him toward the hatch. Two men from the headquarters detachment came over and took charge of the governor, one on either side. The rest were already out of the shuttle, out of the box.
One platoon from Bravo Company had moved into position around the shuttle, covering three sides, weapons pointed outward. Another platoon was moving in the presumed direction of the SAM launches. Lon looked that way and saw a Shrike making a low pass, strafing the edge of a wooded area. The shuttles carrying the Charlie and Delta platoons had been launched from Long Snake but were being held in orbit. Taranto was launching an additional four Shrikes to cover the landings.
Slowly, Lon’s attention caught up with the reports coming in, but he had to ask for repeats. The second Shrike pilot reported that they had seen a half dozen men running into the woods, and those were the targets they had gone after. “I think Zeke got a couple of them, Colonel,” the pilot added. “Your boys are headed in the right direction—about six hundred yards.”
A company of constabulary militia was also moving to intercept the raiders. Lon heard about their movements secondhand, from an officer in the Bancroft Constabulary Militia (BCM). At first Lon didn’t recognize the man…he scarcely had a second to glance at him. Several minutes passed before Lon lifted his faceplate and really looked at the Bancrofter.
“Crampton, isn’t it?” Lon asked.
“Wes Crampton,” the local officer said, nodding. “Colonel now, commander of the BCM. Sorry about the reception. I thought we had sterilized the a
rea around Lincoln.”
“Your governor got more than he bargained for.” Lon looked around and finally spotted Sosa, sitting on the ground with his back against the log palisade wall of the militia base, almost hidden by the people clustered around him. “Can’t really blame him for the way he reacted. None of us did much better.”
“Damned strange piece of luck,” Crampton said. “Passing by the first two shuttles filled with troops and hitting the shuttle bringing you and the governor in. They must not have been able to get into position fast enough.”
“If they didn’t know we were coming, it isn’t strange at all,” Lon said. “They wouldn’t have known anything was going on until the first shuttles came in. We just happened to be next.”
“Maybe.”
Lon stared. “You think there’s something more?”
“Let’s just say I can’t rule it out,” Crampton said. “It was no secret the governor went to Dirigent to get help. The debate over whether we should seek your services went on for weeks. If the raiders are tapped into our public comnet or have other sources of information, they might have been waiting.”
“Other sources?”
“We’ve had a lot of new settlers since the last time you were here, Colonel. It’s not impossible that some of them might have had, shall we say, suspect reasons for coming to Bancroft.”
“Spies for the Colonial Mining Cartel?” Lon asked.
“I know that sounds melodramatic, but it is possible. Before, we had a tight social bond here. All our families had lived on Bancroft for generations. Now we have all these immigrants, different backgrounds, different customs.”
“It’s not something Governor Sosa mentioned,” Lon said.
Crampton shrugged. “The governor has a more optimistic view of human nature than I do.”
The discussion ended. Lon could hear gunfire off to the south—more clearly over his radio than directly. He was linked to the platoon sergeant chasing the raiders. The firefight lasted less than two minutes, ending before the BCM unit could reinforce the Dirigenters.
Lon turned back to Colonel Crampton. “Better have your men see if they can find the raiders hit by the Shrike, Colonel,” Lon said. “Hope there’s somebody still alive. The four men my people got…well, one of them is alive now, but probably won’t survive to get to a trauma tube.”
Crampton nodded and spoke over his own radio. The Bancrofters had battle helmets purchased from Dirigent now, one of the commercial contacts that had continued since the first time the DMC had helped against off-world raiders.
“We’re closing in on them,” Crampton reported. “Have to go in with a little care, in case there are any still capable of, ah, resisting.”
“Of course. I’ve just spoken to CIC aboard Long Snake, ordered the next two companies in,” Lon said. “They’ll be on the ground in twenty minutes.” Lon was ready to write off the possibility that any survivors would be taken in in good enough condition to question under truth drugs. “I just hope they don’t have more SAM teams in position.”
“We’ll do what we can to make sure the route in is covered,” Crampton promised. “I’ve got every available man moving.”
“We’ll be alert to the possibility as well, Colonel,” Lon said. “If a tracking system locks on, we’ll know.” Should have known before, Lon thought. It was something to check on later, why his shuttle had not detected targeting radar locking on before those missiles were fired.
“I thought we had cleared the area after the raid the other day,” Deputy Governor Henks said. It was past noon. The last Dirigenters were on the ground. Half of the shuttles had returned to Long Snake. The rest were parked on the new plascrete landing strip next to the militia base that had been turned over to the mercenaries. This meeting was being held in the commandant’s conference room.
“It happens,” Lon said. “We got lucky. I just wish we’d been able to take one of the raiders alive.” The one wounded man had died, as expected, before medical orderlies could get to him with a trauma tube.
“I wish I could be as casual about it as you are, Colonel Nolan,” Governor Sosa said. He had showered and changed clothes, but his face still seemed uncommonly pale, and his voice sounded weak. “That is something I don’t ever want to go through again.”
“No one likes to be exposed like that, Governor,” Lon said. “It’s something of an occupational hazard for us, but no training can truly prepare a man for it.” One of the two pilots had reacted the same way Sosa had aboard the shuttle—vomited. “And it’s something a civilian should never have to experience.”
“It was my fault, Governor,” Colonel Crampton said. “My responsibility.”
Sosa made a dismissive gesture. “We’re not looking for scapegoats, Colonel. Right now, the important thing is to get the situation on the ground in hand, rid our world of those bastards once and for all.”
“There is one security measure I believe we need to take right away,” Lon said. “Since the raiders might be able to receive any public comnet broadcasts, we have to make certain that they can’t pick up anything that might give them any tactical advantage—anything about the positions and movements of DMC and BCM personnel and other assets; operations, plans, suppositions; casualty reports, intelligence of any sort.”
“Censorship?” Henks asked.
“You don’t tell the enemy where to point the gun, sir, or give him information on how well you think he’s doing,” Lon said. “You’ve been a military man.”
“We have the authority under the emergency measures the council approved,” Sosa said. “Do it, Dan.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have my staff prepare plans this afternoon,” Henks said.
Sosa shook his head. “We don’t drag this out. Have an executive order ready for my signature in an hour and be ready to implement it immediately. I want you on top of this personally, Dan, and I want every possible leak plugged immediately.”
“Of course, Governor,” Henks said, a little stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get right to work.” He pushed his chair back and stood, bowed abruptly, and left.
“It’s something we’ve never had to worry about before,” Sosa said after his deputy left. “We cherish our freedoms here, and censorship, even if it only means delaying the public release of information for a few hours or days, will not be easy medicine. I agree, though, Colonel Nolan. It is most certainly necessary that we not provide the raiders with any avoidable assistance.”
“Yes, sir, I understand how you feel. But it is necessary. In some cases it might not be a matter of hours or days. Some information might have to be withheld until the raiders are eradicated, or until we are absolutely certain that they no longer have the capacity to use that information.”
Sosa nodded. “Whatever the situation requires, Colonel.”
“I’ll have my executive officer coordinate with your people on this, Governor,” Lon said. “We’ll try to keep it from being too onerous.”
The militia compound looked, on the outside, like something that would have been more at home in the Old West of North America a thousand years before. The walls of the compound were wood palisades, tree trunks planted next to each other with pointed tops. The headquarters building, barracks, and other buildings inside were also of log construction. The base would not stand up to attack with even small-caliber artillery or shoulder-launched rockets. To address that weakness, which Lon had pointed out nine years earlier, the Bancrofters had added additional cleared ground on three sides—all but the side that abutted the built-up sections of Lincoln, the planetary capital—and had set up defensive measures farther out, razor wire, pits, and electronic snoops that would warn if any enemy force came within striking range. Armed patrols were also routed around the base now…since the return of off-world raiders.
Inside, the buildings were thoroughly modern, with no trace of the frontier design visible. Lon’s office in the headquarters building was larger than his office on Dirigent, and the living qu
arters above the office were very nearly luxurious. By suppertime of his first day on Bancroft, Lon was confident that his men were ready to move to offensive operations. Liaison with the local government and the BCM were in place. His officers had direct radio links with their counterparts in the militia. Shuttles and Shrikes were flying reconnaissance missions to look for any concentration of raider forces. The computer map had already been fully updated.
“I think we’re ready to roll, Phip,” Lon said. The two men were alone in Lon’s office.
“There’s one good thing about being on a contract like this,” Phip said. “We can stuff most of the red tape in a boot box and leave it until we’re shipboard headed for home. Oh, by the way, they got your shuttle cleaned up. Sosa wasn’t the only one who puked. And we’ve returned his complink—what’s left of it. It got banged around pretty good this morning.”
“That was too close, Phip,” Lon said, very quietly.
“Don’t look for an argument from me. All the years I’ve been in the Corps, that’s the closest I ever came to a dirt pension. It’d really have been hell if three of the four of us went out on the same world. Maybe Janno was the smart one, getting out when he did.”
Lon squeezed his eyes shut, briefly. The same thought had occurred to him earlier. Dean had died on Bancroft. Lon and Phip had almost followed, nine years later.
“I’ve got a mean itch up my back, Lon,” Phip said after letting a silence grow for a minute or more. “Something tells me the trouble might be worse than these raiders just listening to the local compnet. That they might have had more direct news of us, like when we were coming in, maybe even the landing order.”
