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

by William C. Dietz

  McKee gave him a peck on the cheek and shouldered her pack. The ladder creaked under her weight. Once she was up on the surface McKee took a look around. The drone was gone.

  Rather than ask the fly-form to land in the confines of the village, McKee made her way out into the open, where there were no obstructions to worry about. And that’s where she was when the Vulcan appeared off to the west. It circled the village before coming in for a landing. Steam rose to envelop the machine as repellers stabbed the ground, and McKee hurried forward. The ramp bounced slightly as she made her way up to the point where the fly-form’s crew chief was waiting to greet her. “Good morning, ma’am . . . Where’s the rest of your patrol?”

  “There is no patrol . . . Just me.”

  There weren’t very many legionnaires wandering around Algeron by themselves—and the chief gave her a strange look as servos whined, and the ramp came up. McKee turned to look, saw that Ramirez had come out to see her off, and tossed a salute at him. He waved in return and disappeared as the ramp came up. The flight to Fort Camerone took about forty-five minutes but seemed longer. Were they going to send her south again? Or assign her to some godforsaken outpost? There were lots of possibilities and no way to guess which one might be correct.

  There was a thump as the Vulcan put down on one of the fort’s landing pads. McKee was up and ready to disembark as the ramp hit duracrete. A choice had to be made. Would it be best to clean up first? Or report to Olson in a filthy uniform? Something about the brief interaction seemed to suggest that the second course was safest. “Report to me when you arrive.” That’s what Olson had said, so that’s what she would do.

  Once she was inside the fort, McKee consulted an electronic directory and discovered that Captain Olson was attached to the 2nd REP—or 2nd Regiment Etranger De Parachutistes. A much-celebrated airborne outfit known for their daring special-operations missions. That didn’t make much sense since McKee was a cavalry officer, but then what did? Perhaps some sort of joint operation was in the offing.

  McKee made her way through a maze of busy corridors and into the area occupied by the 2nd REP. A smart-looking corporal was seated behind the reception desk and eyed McKee’s muddy uniform with obvious distaste. “Good morning, ma’am. How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Captain Olson.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll tell her that you’re here.”

  McKee waited while the corporal mumbled something inaudible into the wire-thin boom mike positioned in front of his mouth. “You can go back, Lieutenant. Take the first right. Captain Olson is in the second office on the left.”

  McKee made her way back to the office with a sign that read CAPT. OLSON next to the open door. Then she shrugged the pack off and placed it on the floor next to her assault rifle. Her knuckles produced a rapping sound as they hit the block of wood placed there for that purpose. Then she waited to hear a voice say “Enter,” before taking three paces forward. “Lieutenant McKee reporting as ordered, ma’am.”

  The office was small, and Olson was seated behind a gunmetal gray desk. She wore her hair in a flattop, and had white sidewalls, with two ears stuck out at nearly right angles. Her narrow-set eyes were bright with intelligence—and when she spoke, her slitlike mouth barely moved. “At ease. Close the door and grab a chair.”

  McKee did as she was told. “So,” Olson began. “Welcome to Special Operations Team One-Five.”

  McKee could tell that she was supposed to ask, so she did. “Thank you, ma’am. I don’t believe I’ve heard of Special Ops Team One-Five.”

  “That’s because it’s secret,” Olson said primly. “As is everything I’m about to tell you. The team is a company-strength unit under the command of Major Brett Remy. I am his executive officer. For reasons that will soon become clear, the decision was made to cut one platoon of infantry from the One-Five and replace it with a platoon of cavalry. You will be in charge of that platoon.”

  Even though nothing had been said, McKee got the distinct feeling that Olson was opposed to replacing infantry with cavalry—and that wasn’t too surprising given her background. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Olson’s chair made a squeaking sound as she leaned back in it. “You have a very interesting record, McKee . . . You joined the Legion on Esparto, rose to the rank of sergeant in record time, and received an Imperial Order of Merit from the empress herself. Then you won a battlefield commission here on Algeron. As it happens, Major Remy likes jackers. He believes that ex-noncoms make excellent officers.”

  Olson paused to create a steeple with her fingers. “I have a different opinion, however. I believe that most jackers are worthless, ass-kissing con artists, who know how to take credit for the things they didn’t do and are a disgrace to the Legion. So be warned. I will watch you—and I will document what I see. Understood?”

  McKee was careful to keep her voice neutral. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Now that we understand each other, let’s talk about the mission. Empress Ophelia left Earth about a month ago to tour the colonies.”

  All it took was the mention of Ophelia’s name to make McKee’s heart beat faster. But it was important to keep her face blank, and she did.

  “Her first stop was on Orlo II,” Olson added. “And by all accounts, that visit went well.”

  Memories of the planet and the battles fought there came flooding back. Suddenly, McKee was lying on her back looking up at John Avery from six inches away. Focus, she told herself. Pay attention.

  “The next stop was Worber’s World,” Olson continued. “Then, after a brief stay, the empress left to visit the Clone Hegemony. But she never arrived. A Hudathan battle group was lying in wait at Jump Point 897632, and a battle ensued.”

  Olson had McKee’s full attention at that point. And it was time to ask the obvious question. “Did the ridgeheads know she was coming?”

  “We don’t think so,” Olson replied. “But there will be an investigation. You can be sure of that. The Victorious made an emergency jump and her escorts remained behind to prevent the Hudathans from following her.

  “Shortly thereafter, the Victorious exited hyperspace in the vicinity of the planet Savas. However, due to extensive damage suffered during the ambush, it was impossible to control the ship’s in-system drives. So the planet’s gravity pulled the Vic down. We know this because the commanding officer launched a message torp just before the ship entered the atmosphere.”

  Though no expert on such things, McKee knew that large warships weren’t designed to land on planetary surfaces. So whatever happened next wouldn’t be pretty. “That sucks,” McKee said, hoping Ophelia was dead. “Did anyone survive?”

  “We don’t know,” Olson answered. “All we can do is hope. Our job is to reach the crash site, find the empress if she’s still alive, and protect her until a naval task force arrives.”

  “And if the empress is dead?”

  “Then we will protect her body. And her son if he’s alive.”

  McKee had met Nicolai and liked him. “Yes, ma’am. When do we lift?”

  “At 0100,” Olson replied. “I’m sorry, but time is of the essence. You weren’t available, so I was forced to select your platoon for you.”

  The last thing McKee wanted was to have a ground pounder choose her team. Especially for a mission like this one. But judging from the look in Olson’s eyes, she was just waiting for McKee to object. And doing so would be pointless. So McKee limited her reply to a “Thank you. How about supplies?”

  “I delegated that responsibility to your platoon sergeant. He has an excellent record and seems to be quite capable.”

  McKee thought about Larkin and made a note to visit him if only for a few minutes. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “All right, then,” Olson said. “Pull your gear together and be on Pad 8 at 1245 hours. We’ll use the trip out to train up. Any questions?”

 
“No, ma’am.”

  “Dismissed.”

  McKee rose, offered a salute, and received one in return. She felt a fierce sense of determination as she executed an about-face and left the office. If they found Ophelia, and the bitch was alive, she wouldn’t be for long.

  With less than twelve hours left to lift off, McKee had to make good use of her time. The first stop was to see Larkin who, according to the lead medic, was an enormous pain in the ass. Hardly a surprise from McKee’s point of view. His bed was positioned in a row of beds, some of which were invisible behind pulled curtains. The legionnaire still had a bandage wrapped around his head, but his face lit up as she approached. “McKee! You’re back . . . That’s great. Tell the pill pushers to turn me loose.”

  McKee grinned. “I come bearing good news . . . According to the medic out front, they plan to discharge you in a couple of days. If you continue to improve. So lie back and get better.”

  Larkin made a face. “Okay . . . But keep my slot open.”

  McKee shook her head. “I’m sorry, Desmond . . . I’d like nothing better. But I have orders.”

  “Shit. Where are you going? I’ll find a way to get there.”

  “I’m not allowed to say.”

  They looked at each other. There was a moment of silence. Larkin spoke first. “I’m going to miss you, McKee. Watch your six.”

  McKee felt a lump form in the back of her throat. Ever since boot camp, there had been one thing she could count on—and that was the certain knowledge that Larkin would be there to watch her back. “I will, Desmond, I will. You too.”

  And then, fearful that she would start crying, McKee turned and left. There were other people she cared about—but none she felt compelled to say good-bye to. So she made her way to the tiny room that constituted her quarters and went to work sorting her gear. She could take about sixty pounds’ worth of stuff with her. The balance would go into storage. Would she return to claim it? She pushed the thought away.

  The rest of the day passed quickly. Then, after a three-hour nap, it was time to get up. A hot shower and a simple breakfast were followed by McKee’s carrying her gear through a maze of corridors to a lift that took her up to the flight center. Her breath fogged the air as she emerged, and there was nothing to see but darkness out beyond the fortress.

  After clearing a security checkpoint, McKee followed an elevated walkway to Pad 8, where a shuttle sat crouched under the glow of two overhead lights. It looked as though the third light had been shot out by a sniper stationed on High Hump Hill. The Naa couldn’t see the shuttle, or the ground crew, thanks to a protective wall. But the bastards took pride in popping the perimeter lights when they could.

  Wisps of vapor drifted away from the manta-shaped shuttle as a petty officer came down the ramp to help with her gear. He was wearing a helmet, a navy blue flight suit, and combat boots. The salute was crisp. “Welcome aboard, ma’am. The pilots tell me we’re going to lift on time. That’ll put you on Io in three hours or so.”

  McKee thanked the sailor and followed him up the ramp into the dimly lit hold. Cargo modules occupied most of the space, but a trio of legionnaires was settling in as well. One of them said, “Atten-hut!” But before the others could stand, McKee said, “As you were,” and went over to introduce herself. The ground pounders wouldn’t be reporting to her, but it made sense to know everyone in the unit. All of them wore rakish green berets and the winged-hand-and-dagger emblem they took so much pride in.

  Once the introductions were complete, McKee chose a seat, strapped in, and was asleep before the shuttle lifted off. When she awoke, it was to find the crew chief looming over her. “Lieutenant? We’re on the Io. Your gear is at the bottom of the ramp.”

  McKee rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Thank you.”

  The petty officer smiled. “We aim to please.” Then he was gone.

  Once McKee reached the bottom of the ramp, she saw that a legionnaire was waiting for her. He snapped to attention. “Platoon Sergeant Jolo, ma’am. Welcome aboard.” The salute was picture-perfect. Jolo had dark skin, serious eyes, and a square chin. McKee hadn’t had an opportunity to study his P-1 file but liked what she saw. And that was important because Jolo was going to be her second-in-command.

  She returned the salute and extended her hand. “Captain Olson has nice things to say about you.”

  Jolo grinned. “Who am I to argue with the XO? Speaking of which, Major Remy is holding a meeting in half an hour, and we’re invited. Here . . . I can help with your gear.”

  The outer hatch was closed, and the hangar was pressurized. As Jolo led McKee over to a lift, she quizzed him about the ship. According to the information available online at the fort, the Io was an SSML or Supply Ship Medium Load. That suggested a small freighter. But the Io didn’t feel like a freighter, and when she said as much, Jolo laughed. “No, ma’am. The Io is a special-operations dropship. She’s about half a mile long, carries a 150-person crew, and can deliver up to 150 pods.”

  McKee looked at him. “As in ‘climb-inside-a-capsule-and-fall-out-of-the-sky’ type pods?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m looking forward to it. The green hats tell me it’ll be one helluva ride.”

  McKee didn’t like the idea but thought it best to keep such reservations to herself. By the time they reached her tiny cabin and placed her gear inside, it was time to leave for the meeting.

  The wardroom was located on A deck and barely large enough to accommodate the nine people who were present. They included Olson, who acknowledged McKee with a nod prior to making an introduction. “Major Remy, this is Lieutenant McKee.”

  Remy had bushy brows, penetrating eyes, and a cleft chin. He was no taller than McKee, but he had a firm grip and a strong physical presence. “Welcome to the One-Five, McKee . . . You’ve had the briefing, so you know where we’re headed. There’s no telling what we’ll run into, and we’re damned lucky to have a cavalry officer of your experience.”

  After that, McKee was introduced to the other platoon leaders, the company sergeant, and two platoon sergeants. All of whom were members of the 2nd REP. “Okay,” Remy said. “Find places to sit. We will break orbit shortly. That will be the beginning of a seven-day, two-jump run to Savas.”

  Remy waited until all of them were situated before continuing. His expression was serious. “All of you know that the empress was aboard the Victorious. What you don’t know is that according to data gathered by an unmanned recon ship, the Hudathans have a base on Savas.”

  McKee heard the platoon leader seated on her right say, “Oh, shit,” and Remy nodded.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Ellis . . . That’s my sentiment as well. And the Hudathans have everything to do with why a dropship was chosen for this mission. In addition to the base, it looks like the ridgeheads have a battle group stationed off Savas.

  “Ideally, the navy would attack those ships and put a battalion of marines on the ground. And ultimately it will. But our forces are stretched thin at the moment. So while the people on Earth pull the necessary resources together, the Io is going to swoop in and drop us onto Savas. Then she’s going to run like hell. The hope is that she can make a hyperspace jump before the ridgeheads can nail her.”

  Remy’s eyes probed the faces around him. “We will find ourselves in a challenging situation regardless of what happens to the Io,” he said. “Once the Hudathans realize what took place, they will start to search for us. Lieutenant Sokov . . . I can tell that you’re itching to ask a question.”

  Sokov had a shaved head, a prominent brow, and a 2nd REP emblem dangling from one ear. “Sir, yes, sir. Do the Hudathans know about the Victorious?”

  “That,” Remy said heavily, “is a very important question. And we don’t know for sure. But it seems safe to assume that they do.”

  “So if the empress is alive, they might have her,” Olson pointed out.

 
“Shit, shit, shit,” Ellis said.

  “The lieutenant has a limited vocabulary,” Remy said dryly, “but an excellent grasp of the situation. That brings us to the week ahead. Lieutenant McKee hasn’t been introduced to any of her people with the exception of Sergeant Jolo here. Nor has she, or any member of her platoon, completed a drop. So they’ll have to hit the virtual-reality system hard during the coming days.”

  Olson cleared her throat. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  Remy smiled grimly. “Of course.”

  “We’re still in orbit, sir. In the light of what you said, I recommend we request an additional platoon from the 2nd REP and dispense with the cavalry. It would take six to eight hours to effect the change—but the payoff would be worth the delay.”

  If Olson’s proposal caught Remy by surprise, there was no sign of it on his face. His eyes swung over to McKee. “How about it, McKee? Should we trade you and your platoon for more green hats?”

  McKee felt mixed emotions. The mission Remy had described verged on the impossible. And who could blame her if she chose to side with Olson? Her people lacked the necessary training, and no amount of VR time would make up for the deficit. But what if the empress was alive? The mission might give McKee an opportunity to kill her . . . And that would be a very good thing indeed. She met Remy’s gaze.

  “I understand Captain Olson’s point of view, sir . . . But I think the benefits of keeping my platoon on the team outweigh the potential problems. Once on the ground, each one of my T-1s will provide firepower equivalent to an entire squad of green hats. That, plus our ability to travel at up to 30 MPH over flat terrain and our heavy weaponry, will provide the One-Five with a much-needed edge should the unit be forced to engage a numerically superior force. Sir.”

  Remy grinned. “I couldn’t have said it better myself . . . So we’re going to roll the dice on this one. Okay, that’s it for now. Go check on your people. Make sure they’re ready for departure. Lieutenant McKee . . . A moment of your time, please.”