Andromeda's War (Legion of the Damned Book 3)

by William C. Dietz

  Outside of occasional harassing fire, the rest of the night passed without incident. As dawn approached, McKee gave the order to “Stand to.” For thousands of years, Human beings had chosen to attack at dawn, hoping to catch the enemy sleeping. Or if not sleeping, then groggy and therefore vulnerable. And it had been no different on Algeron.

  So as the sun raised its fiery head, McKee was anything but surprised as hundreds of dooth-mounted warriors poured out of the tree line to the south. They screamed incoherent war cries as they fired on the run. “Pick your targets,” McKee said calmly. “Ready, aim, fire!”

  The massed fire from the Legion’s bio bods and the Naa warriors was effective by itself. But the bursts of .50 caliber fire from the T-1s were simply devastating. Dooths and warriors alike fell in a welter of blood as more Naa joined the fray. They were riding in a counterclockwise fashion, and each rotation brought them closer to the berm. Humans and Naa alike fell as a hail of bullets swept across the top of the hill. McKee chinned her mike as she fired at the nearest attacker. “Use grenades! Make ’em pay.”

  And pay the attackers did, as explosions blew bloody gaps in the circling horde. As the enemy began to pull back, a com tech spoke into McKee’s ear. “This is Alpha-Five-Four . . . We have a Titan inbound. ETA twelve minutes. Over.”

  “This is One,” McKee responded. “Advise the pilot that the LZ is hot. Over.”

  “Roger that,” the tech replied. “Over.”

  McKee half expected to hear that the Titan had turned back, but that wasn’t the case. And as the tubby VTOL appeared out of the north, it was a sight to see. The cyborg’s miniguns burped intermittently as his or her waist gunners fired at ground targets.

  As McKee switched frequencies, she could hear the pilot talking to her com tech. “Get your people ready to board. Wounded first. I’ll give you three minutes, then I’m outta here. Over.”

  Larkin was getting things ready. Uninjured dooths were being herded out of the LZ while the construction droids towed two dead animals away. McKee ran over to the spot where a small group of walking wounded and three stretchers were waiting. Truthsayer was ready to go. “My warriors want to take their dooths!” he shouted, as the huge fly-form arrived over the compound.

  “That’s a negative,” McKee said emphatically. “There isn’t enough room, and we don’t have time to secure them even if there was.”

  Truthsayer nodded as the fly-form touched down, and the artificial wind created by its rotors blew dust in every direction. “Thank you,” Truthsayer said, as he extended a hand. “You are worthy of your name.”

  McKee accepted the forearm-to-forearm grip and looked him in the eye. “As are you, Chief . . . As are you.”

  The stretchers were going aboard when a heavily loaded Jivani arrived to give McKee a hug before turning to trot up the ramp. Truthsayer and his warriors were the last on, and as McKee watched them board, she saw Colonel Cavenaugh. He was dressed to the nines and apparently eager to receive the chief of chiefs. That made sense, of course, since the opportunity to deliver Truthsayer to General Vale was too good to pass up.

  Engines roared as the ramp went up, and the cyborg took off. The fly-form made a huge target, and McKee could hear dozens of telltale pings as dozens of bullets hit the VTOL. That was followed by the stutter of automatic fire as McKee’s legionnaires responded in kind.

  Then the Titan’s miniguns went to work as the fully loaded cyborg began a ponderous turn. And that was when a streak of light jumped out of the trees and struck the ship. There was what sounded like a clap of thunder as the number three engine exploded, and McKee was left to watch in horror as the fly-form began to heel over, and went in hard. Severed rotors scythed through the air, the fuselage broke in two, and a fuel tank exploded into flame.

  It didn’t take a genius to realize that the ship had been destroyed by a shoulder-launched missile. Booty captured from a Legion outpost most likely—and saved for just such an opportunity. McKee felt sick to her stomach but she couldn’t allow herself to barf, cry, or ask why. There might be survivors. If so, every second would count.

  McKee chinned her mike. “This is Alpha-One . . . First squad to me. We’re going to check the wreck for survivors. Alpha-One-Three will assume command in my absence. Let’s go. Over.”

  Though not a member of the first squad, Vella appeared at her side. And as McKee took her place on his back, Sergeant Payton and the remaining members of his unit appeared. Foy and Gan had been killed back at Graveyard Pass. But the noncom still had two bio bods and three cyborgs under his command. It would have been nice to take a larger force, of course. But, if the southerners launched still another attack, Larkin would require every fighter he had left.

  “Okay,” McKee said over the squad freq. “We’re going to run out there, search for survivors, and haul ass. Any questions? No? Let’s do this thing.”

  Vella led the rest of them over the wooden bridge and down the slope beyond. It appeared that the southerners were so stunned by their own success that they had been slow to follow up. But now, dooth-mounted warriors were starting to emerge from the tree line and clearly intended to take possession of the wreck and the booty it might contain. Vella ran to cut them off. He fired, and McKee did as well.

  A dooth and its rider went down, but the contest was far from one-sided. Puffs of dirt flew up all around, and McKee could hear bullets striking the T-1’s armor as more riders appeared. By then it was apparent that McKee had bitten off more than one squad could chew. So she was going to abort the mission and run like hell when a series of explosions marched along the tree line. Trees, parts of trees, and what might have been body parts were tossed high into the air only to come cartwheeling down.

  Rockets! Larkin had ordered the T-1s back in the compound to fire on the woods. And the barrage gave her legionnaires the opportunity they needed. They swept in to take up positions bordering the south side of the crash site. “This is Alpha-One . . . Three-One and Three-Three will dismount and help me search for survivors. Everyone else will defend the wreck. Over.”

  So with Payton in charge, and four T-1s to do his bidding, McKee felt the situation was under control as her boots hit the ground. Corporal Deon Smith arrived seconds later, closely followed by Private Flo Hyatt. “Smith, I want you to go forward. Find the emergency access hatch, open it up, and jerk the pilot’s brain box.

  “Hyatt . . . You and I are going in. Keep your head on a swivel and run your recorder. The Intel people are going to run this stuff frame by frame.”

  Smith took off at a trot, while McKee led Hyatt toward the crash site. Scraps of the fiber-composite fuselage were scattered everywhere. What remained of engine three lay thirty yards west of the main wreck and was still burning. The Titan’s cigar-shaped fuselage had been bent into the shape of a Chinese fortune cookie. The split between the two halves offered a way in.

  A headless body had been thrown clear. It was dressed in a flight suit so McKee knew it belonged to the crew chief or one of the door gunners. She checked to make sure that her camera was on and recording as she scanned the legionnaire’s name tag. ORKOV. The graves registration people would want to know.

  AXE at the ready, McKee stepped over the corpse and approached the badly contorted hatch. If any passengers had survived the crash, they would be armed and understandably trigger-happy. So she called out. “This is McKee! Don’t shoot . . . We’re coming in.”

  There was no answer other than the occasional groan of tortured metal as the wreck continued to settle. McKee heard a burst of gunfire from behind her and knew that Sergeant Payton and his T-1s were earning their pay.

  There was a profound emptiness at the pit of McKee’s stomach as she brushed past the pintle-mounted minigun and entered the hull. If there were survivors, where were they? She called out again, but there was no response.

  McKee turned left and was barely able to squeeze through the nar
row gap that opened into the cargo hold. Sunlight streamed in through dozens of ragged holes to form pools of gold on the bodies sprawled within. It looked like a slaughterhouse.

  The first thing McKee noticed was that Naa bodies had been tossed every which way. That didn’t make sense at first. Then she remembered that the ride on the Titan was a first for the locals . . . And someone, Stinkkiller came to mind, might have objected to wearing a safety harness. Perhaps he thought it would be a sign of weakness—or maybe he was afraid of what the Humans might do to the warriors if they were restrained.

  Whatever the reason, McKee found the Naa’s body with a stretcher laid across it. Stinkkiller’s head was turned at an unnatural angle and it looked as though his neck was broken. Tears ran down McKee’s cheeks as she spotted Jivani. The civilian was strapped in the way she should be. But a shard of bloody metal was protruding from her chest. The xenoanthropologist’s eyes were open and staring at McKee, who paused long enough to close them. “I found Truthsayer,” Hyatt said from ten feet away. “It looks like a locker fell on him.”

  McKee swore and was forced to step over a legionnaire named Nix in order to join Hyatt. Judging from all the blood, Nix might have been dead before the crash. Truthsayer was still recognizable even though the ammo locker had crushed his rib cage. A quick check confirmed that the chief of chiefs was dead. There would be no negotiations or prospects for peace.

  Then McKee noticed some khaki under some wreckage and pulled a ceiling panel aside to reveal Colonel Cavenaugh’s body. Had he been up out of his seat when a piece of shrapnel tore his arm off? It appeared that way. Then, while he was in the process of bleeding out, the Titan hit the ground. The impact could have bounced him off the ceiling and crushed his skull. Not that it made any difference. McKee’s thoughts were interrupted by a blast of static and the sound of Payton’s voice. “Alpha-Three to Alpha-One . . . They’re massing for an attack. We’ve got to pull out. Over.”

  “Copy,” McKee said. “We’re on the way. Over.”

  She turned to Hyatt. “You heard the man . . . It’s time to amscray.”

  Hyatt said, “Yes, ma’am,” and turned to go. McKee was immediately behind the private when she saw an arm shoot up out of a pile of bodies. A survivor! She hurried to help. And there, much to her amazement, was Andy! It appeared the synth had completed the task it had been sent to do—or it figured that McKee was going to die in battle.

  Whatever the reason, the robot had slipped aboard the Titan and been cut in half during the crash. McKee almost made the mistake of trying to help the machine. Then she realized how stupid that would be and removed a thermite grenade from a pouch on her chest protector. Knowing that her helmet cam would capture everything she did, McKee pulled the pin and dropped the grenade where Andy wouldn’t be able to reach it. “No!” Andy said. “Help me!”

  “Sorry,” McKee replied, as she backed away. “We have to pull out, and I can’t allow you to fall into enemy hands.” Then she turned and ran.

  A flash strobed the bulkheads around her as the grenade went off, and she knew that the thermite would turn Andy into a puddle of metal and prevent the machine from submitting a report to the Bureau of Missing Persons. Vella was waiting as McKee cleared the wreck. “Smith got the pilot . . . She’s alive.”

  “Thank God for that,” McKee said, as she strapped in. “Alpha-One to Alpha-One-Three . . . Let the digs close in on the wreck. Once they do, destroy it. Over.”

  The response came from squad leader Sergeant Joi Ling. “This is Alpha-Four . . . Roger that. Over.”

  This time it was Payton and his T-1 who led the way, with McKee and Vella bringing up the rear. The squad circled out and around the west side of the crash site as they followed the slope upwards. And when they entered the compound, Ling was there to greet them. She waited for McKee to dismount before delivering her report. “At least a dozen of the bastards are inside the wreck,” Ling said. “With more gathered outside.”

  “Let them have it,” McKee said coldly, and stepped up onto a block of granite so she could see better. Rockets sleeted into the sky, fell downwards, and hit the wreck in quick succession. A second salvo followed the first. The fly-form shook in response to a series of overlapping explosions. A new sun was born a second later. It produced what sounded like a clap of thunder, collapsed in on itself, and sent a column of black smoke billowing up into the sky. All that remained was a shallow crater and a large field of debris.

  McKee turned to Ling. “Well done. Where’s Sergeant Larkin?”

  The noncom’s expression was grim. “He took a bullet . . . Zapata’s working on him now.”

  It was too much. More than McKee thought she could take. It took all of her strength to maintain the icy composure that the job required. “Where is he?”

  “In the command bunker.”

  McKee ran across the compound and followed the ramp down into the dimly lit chamber below. Larkin was laid out on a folding table. A bloodstained battle dressing was wrapped around his head. A medic was taking his blood pressure. McKee made her way over to the corner. “Is he conscious?”

  Zapata had a buzz cut, brown eyes, and cheeks covered with black stubble. He removed the stethoscope from his ears and let it hang. “Sometimes.”

  “What happened?”

  “Something hit his helmet, he took it off to see how much damage had been done, and a bullet creased his skull. But, if we can get him to Fort Camerone, there’s a good chance he’ll make it.”

  “Don’t let him die,” McKee said harshly. “Do everything you can. Do you read me?”

  The words sounded shrill, even to McKee, and she could see the fear in Zapata’s eyes. That was when she realized that the AXE was pointed at him. She pulled the barrel up so it was pointed at the roof before turning to face a wide-eyed com tech. “Give me a sitrep . . . We need a dustoff.”

  The com tech was opening her mouth to speak when a voice came over a small speaker. “Alpha base, this is Fox-Four, Six, and Seven inbound. ETA three minutes. I understand you could use some air support. Over.”

  McKee went over to snatch the hand mike. “This is Alpha-One. Roger that. Most of the targets are in the woods a half mile south of our location. Over.”

  “Understood,” came the reply. “Take a break . . . We’ll tidy up. Over.”

  “We need a dustoff,” McKee said. “And we need it now. Over.”

  “This is Bravo-Two-Two,” a new voice said. “Roger the dustoff. Prep the LZ for two Vulcans. Over.”

  “You’ll have to land one at a time,” McKee responded. “But we’ll be ready. Over.”

  There was a muted roar as the fighters passed overhead and began their bombing runs. McKee returned to the surface in time to witness the resulting explosions, the tidal wave of fire, and the roiling smoke. If even one Naa survived the aerial onslaught it would be a miracle.

  The fighters circled above as the first Vulcan came in for a landing. Larkin’s stretcher went on first, followed by the brain box Smith had pulled out of the Titan, and three walking wounded. Four T-1s, the construction droids, and the RAVs completed the load. McKee would have preferred to stay with Larkin, but that wasn’t possible. Her place was on the ground until the last member of her company had been loaded.

  There was a wait as the first fly-form took off and disappeared to the north. Then the second Vulcan came in for a landing. The crew chief began to talk about a potential overload as more T-1s clomped aboard but stopped when McKee pointed her AXE at him. Finally, after one last look around, McKee walked up the ramp. The mood was somber inside the cargo compartment, and no one spoke.

  The engines wound up tight as they struggled to lift the overloaded fly-form off the ground. The hull wobbled as the Vulcan took to the air and steadied as the pilot switched to horizontal flight. That was when McKee closed her eyes, watched the Titan crash all over again, and wished that officers were all
owed to cry.

  CHAPTER: 6

  In Flanders fields the poppies blow.

  Between the crosses, row on row.

  JOHN MCCRAE

  “In Flanders Fields”

  Standard year 1917

  PLANET ORLO II

  A temporary platform had been set up on a rise that looked out over the new cemetery. From where John Avery was standing, he could see more than a thousand white grave markers. They stood in precise rows, each representing a life lost. Avery had known some of them, fought next to them, and seen them die.

  Dignitaries were present, too, a couple dozen of them, along with contingents of military personnel representing the Legion, navy, Marine Corps, and the planet’s Militia. They stood at attention as a military chaplain read a speech peppered with phrases like, “These fine men and women,” “the best the empire had to offer,” and “for the greater good.”

  All of which was bullshit, but no one was going to call the chaplain on it, since the empress was about to speak. She had arrived to much fanfare three days earlier and was slated to remain on Orlo II for two additional weeks before continuing her tour of the empire.

  And thinking about Ophelia inevitably reminded Avery of Cat Carletto, or Sergeant Andromeda McKee as she was now known. The footage of her receiving the Imperial Order of Merit had been sent to all of the colonies and played endlessly over the government-run media outlets. And Avery never tired of watching the vid in order to see her face. What was McKee thinking when she accepted the medal? he wondered. Nothing good, that was for sure.

  They had fallen in love during very trying circumstances, which made the bond even stronger. But he was an officer, and she was enlisted, and that made their love affair illegal. And the ever-present threat of discovery had been difficult to live with.

  That was bad enough, but there was another problem as well. The Bureau of Missing Persons had sent synths out to find Cat and kill her—and there was reason to believe that he was under suspicion, too. Not because of McKee, or his actions, but based on things his brother had said back on Earth.