When Duty Calls

by William C. Dietz

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Ace Books by William C. Dietz

  GALACTIC BOUNTY

  FREEHOLD

  PRISON PLANET

  IMPERIAL BOUNTY

  ALIEN BOUNTY

  MCCADE’S BOUNTY

  DRIFTER

  DRIFTER’S RUN

  DRIFTER’S WAR

  LEGION OF THE DAMNED

  BODYGUARD

  THE FINAL BATTLE

  WHERE THE SHIPS DIE

  STEELHEART

  BY BLOOD ALONE

  BY FORCE OF ARMS

  DEATHDAY

  EARTHRISE

  FOR MORE THAN GLORY

  FOR THOSE WHO FELL

  RUNNER

  LOGOS RUN

  WHEN ALL SEEMS LOST

  WHEN DUTY CALLS

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2008 by William C. Dietz.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  eISBN : 978-0-441-01632-7

  1. Space warfare—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3554.I388W46 2008

  813’.54—dc22

  2008030836

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Allison Elizabeth Dietz,

  in recognition of her courage, and determination.

  1

  The general who is skilled in defense hides in the most secret recesses of the Earth; he who is skilled in attack flashes forth from the topmost heights of heaven.

  —Sun Tzu

  The Art of War

  Standard year circa 500 B.C.

  PLANET ORON IV, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  Captain Antonio Santana, Commanding Officer of Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC, felt a noticeable jerk as the CF-10 Assault Boat fell free of the Troop Transport Cynthia Harmon and began a gradual descent toward the nearly airless planet below. The lightly armed landing craft was accompanied by four Dagger 184 aerospace fighters. That knowledge brought the cavalry officer scant comfort, however, because he knew that once his largely untried company hit the surface of Oron IV, the navy wouldn’t be able to do much more than cheer them on. Or mourn their deaths.

  Santana felt his body float up off the surface of the jump seat, or try to, but a six-point harness held him in place. Behind the officer, back in the CF-10’s crowded cargo bay, sixteen space-armored bio bods and nineteen cyborgs shared the heady combination of fear and excitement that precedes any combat insertion. And this one was worse than most. Because not only was half the company fresh from basic training, and had never been in combat before, but the raid was the type of mission normally reserved for the Marine Corps. Except there was a shortage of jarheads at the moment—which was why the Legion had been ordered to stand in for them. Making a bad situation worse was the fact that Major Liam Quinlan had assumed command of the 2nd Battalion while Santana was on leave. And for some reason the new CO was determined to find fault with everything the officer did, a fact that had become obvious to the entire company and made the veterans resentful.

  But Santana had dealt with difficult commanding officers before and been able to win most of them over by doing a good job. With that in mind, the cavalry officer put all of his other concerns aside to focus on the task at hand. The pale orange planet seemed to swell as the CF-10 entered an atmosphere thick with methane, carbon dioxide, and nitrous oxide. Which was why the world was considered worthless, or had been until recently, when the war between the Ramanthian Empire and the Confederacy of Sentient Beings had begun. Suddenly everything was in flux as old enemies became new friends, a new faster-than-ship communications technology began to reshape the way future wars would be fought, and planets like Oron IV were suddenly significant. Not as places for people to live, but as strategic jump points, where supplies could be pre-positioned for battles yet to come. Because, as Military Chief of Staff General Bill Booly liked to point out, supplies are the lifeblood of any army.

  Which, assuming the intelligence people were correct, was why the insectoid Ramanthians had chosen to establish a presence on Oron IV, a planet that lay well within the Confederacy’s gradually shrinking borders, was generally inhospitable to life, and rarely received visitors. All of which made it the perfect place for the bugs to hide a whole shitload of supplies while they got ready for the next big push. “Are you sure the chits are down there?” the copilot inquired dubiously. “There are no signs of electronic activity so far. . . . Maybe they went home.”

  “That would be nice,” Santana replied over his suit radio. “But odds are the bastards are lying low. That’s what I would do if I were them.”

  All radio communications were being routed through the company-level Integrated Tactical Command (ITC) system, which meant that Major Quinlan could monitor the company’s progress from the well-padded comfort of the Harmon’s Command & Control Center (C&C) and participate in any conversation he chose to. “I don’t think any of us care what you would do if you were a Ramanthian,” Quinlan commented caustically. “So, stow the bullshit, and stick to your job.”

  The copilot looked back over her shoulder as if to apologize, and Santana shrugged, as if to say, “Don’t worry about it.”

  Meanwhile, back in the cargo bay, Master Sergeant Dice Die
trich frowned. The hollow-cheeked noncom had served with Santana before. First on LaNor, where a consortium of off-world governments had been forced to battle the Claw, and then on Savas, where elements of the 1st REC took part in a raid that required them to traverse hundreds of miles of hostile territory. So Dietrich not only knew what the cavalry officer was capable of, but was familiar with Santana’s combat record, which included two Medals for Valor and a Distinguished Service Cross. Complete with a newly added star. And, being a decorated veteran himself, Dietrich knew how divisive an officer like Quinlan could be. Divisive, and if they weren’t careful, dead. Because it was the noncom’s opinion that every garden requires an occasional weeding.

  Both of the company’s quads were back by the loading ramp, where they could hit the ground first, backed by seventeen ten-foot-tall Trooper IIs, all of whom were clamped to the bulkheads, and fifteen bio bods, many of whom were looking at the “Top,” trying to gauge his reaction to Quinlan’s comment. Mindful of the fact that the major could hear anything he said, Dietrich grinned menacingly from behind his faceplate and aimed a one-fingered salute up toward space.

  The legionnaires seated around the noncom laughed, and even though both of Santana’s platoon leaders witnessed the gesture, they were careful to ignore it. Partly because they had no love for Quinlan themselves, but mostly because they were afraid to get crosswise of the hard-eyed sergeant, and the veterans who were loyal to him. The net effect was to break the tension and simultaneously restore the company’s confidence in Santana. Because if Dietrich had faith in the captain, then it was obvious that they should, too.

  The assault boat and its sleek escorts bucked their way down through multiple layers of turbulent gas until they could skim the planet’s arid surface. There wasn’t much to see other than frequent outcroppings of gray rock, dry riverbeds, and occasional forests of what looked like petrified trees. Then, after ten minutes or so, the landing craft’s boxy shadow rippled over the only man-made structures on the planet’s surface. The complex consisted of a rusty dome, a clutch of globular tanks, and a sand-drifted landing pad. The words “Madsen Mining” were still legible on the cracked duracrete if one looked hard enough. The entire facility was nestled within the open arms of three interlocking hills, which the map provided by Madsen Mining referred to as the Three Amigos.

  “Bingo!” the copilot said excitedly, as she stared at the readouts arrayed in front of her. “That sucker is radiating way too much heat. . . . It looks like the chits took over the mine! Maybe we should tell the Dags to bomb ’em.”

  “They’re too deep,” Santana replied wearily. “In fact, based on the schematic that Madsen Mining gave us, it looks like some of the major galleries are more than a thousand feet below the surface. Besides, there’s a war on, and some of those supplies could come in handy. . . . Put us down one mile to the west. Who knows what kind of weapons systems and booby traps the bugs have in place around the landing pad.”

  Quinlan’s response came so quickly it was as if he’d been waiting to make it. “That’s a negative Alpha Six. Why give the enemy time to prepare? You will land on the pad—and do so immediately. Over.”

  The pilot looked back over his shoulder as if to say, “What now?”

  Santana swore under his breath. He’d been hoping to avoid conflict, but if that was what it was going to take to protect his legionnaires, then that’s the way it would have to be. “Alpha Six to Zulu Six. I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a lot of interference down here, and you’re breaking up. Over.”

  The pilot grinned as Quinlan began to rant and rave. “You’re lying, Santana. . . . And disobeying a direct order! I’m going to—”

  But whatever the major was going to do was forever lost as the copilot flicked a switch, and the relay went dead. “Sorry, sir,” she said, knowing that the flight recorder would capture her words. “It looks like we have some sort of com problem.”

  “See what you can do with it,” the pilot replied calmly, as he brought the boat’s nose up and fired the repellers. “I have a ship to land. Thirty to dirt . . .”

  Santana was already up out of his seat and making his way back into the cargo bay when the assault boat’s skids thumped down, the rear hatch whirred open, and the entire ship shook as Private Ivan Lupo lumbered down the ramp onto Oron IV’s reddish soil. The cyborg stood twenty-five feet tall, weighed fifty tons, and was supported by four massive legs. It was no accident that the so-called quad was the first legionnaire to hit dirt, because not only were Lupo’s sensors superior to those carried by the bipedal Trooper IIs (T-2s), but his gang-mounted energy cannons were more than a match for anything up to and including a Ramanthian battle tank. Not that Alpha Company was likely to encounter enemy armor on a backwater crud ball like Oron IV. Of course Lupo knew that “. . . assumptions can get you killed.” That’s what he and his buddies had been taught back in basic, and having already been executed for murder, the ex-con had no desire to die again. Not so soon at any rate.

  Lupo assumed a defensive position about a hundred yards west of the landing craft, as Private Simy Xiong exited the ship and took up a similar position off to the east. As the second quad settled over her legs, Santana sent First Lieutenant Lucy Amoyo’s platoon out to secure the rest of the perimeter. For many of the legionnaires it was the first time they had set foot on a potentially hostile planet, so even though there weren’t any visible signs of life, the entire outfit was amped.

  Amoyo, one of the few members of Alpha Company who had seen combat, was no exception as she rode her ten-foot-tall T-2 out onto Oron’s arid surface. From where the officer stood, high on the cyborg’s back, she had an excellent field of vision. More than that, she was free to focus most of her attention on the first platoon rather than negotiate the raw terrain. That chore fell to Sergeant Amy Matos, formerly Corporal Amy Matos, who had been killed in action two years previously, and given a chance to re-up as a cyborg. Which was really no choice at all since Matos couldn’t afford even the cheapest cybernetic civbod, a vehicle that would allow her to look human even if certain biological functions were forever lost to her.

  So Matos brought her weapons systems to condition-five readiness and cranked her sensors to high gain, as she circled the newly created perimeter. The cyborg could run at speeds up to fifty miles per hour, operate in Class I through Class IX gas atmospheres, and fight in a complete vacuum if necessary. And, thanks to her fast-recovery laser cannon, air-cooled .50-caliber machine gun, and optional missile launchers, the T-2’s firepower equaled that of eight fully armed bio bods. Having completed a full circuit of the perimeter, and being satisfied with the way her troops were positioned, Amoyo ordered Matos to pull up. “Alpha One-Six to Alpha Six. Over.”

  Had Santana felt free to do so, he would have been the first bio bod off the ship. But the entire company was watching, and the officer knew he couldn’t disembark with the first platoon lest the action be interpreted as a lack of faith in Lieutenant Amoyo’s judgment. And, given the fact that she was his executive officer (XO) as well as the senior platoon leader, it was important to build her rep. So, Santana was standing in the cargo bay, monitoring the heads-up display (HUD) on the inside surface of his visor, when the call came in. “This is Six,” Santana replied calmly. “Go. Over.”

  “The landing zone is secure, sir,” the platoon leader reported flatly. “Over.”

  “Roger, that, One-Six,” Santana replied. “Keep your eyes peeled. Out.”

  Based on previous experience, Santana knew that his other platoon commander, a young second lieutenant named Gregory Zolkin, had a tendency to be excessively wordy where his reports were concerned. He hoped the untried officer had been paying attention to Amoyo’s succinct style as the two of them made eye contact. Both were sealed inside full body armor, so what might have otherwise been a casual interchange was made more formal by the need to use radio procedure, which was required whenever a conversation took place on the company-level push.

  “Alpha Six to
Bravo One-Six,” Santana said. “Based on the amount of heat that’s escaping from the mine shaft, there’s a very real possibility that the bugs are hiding out below, waiting to see if we’ll go away. You and I will take the first squad and knock on the front door. Meanwhile, Alpha Six-Two will take the second squad and circle around behind the hills. His job will be to locate the back door. And believe me—there is one. Do you have any questions? Over.”

  Zolkin had lots of questions. Not the least of which was would he make an ass of himself, shit his suit, or get killed? But, being unable to actually ask those questions, the lieutenant gave the only answer he could. “Sir, no, sir. Bravo One-Six out.”

  Santana hadn’t discussed the plan with Dietrich in advance, but such was the relationship between the two men that the noncom had anticipated such an assignment, and was ready for it. Because if a substantial number of chits were allowed to surface in the wrong place, the results could be disastrous. And rather than download the task to Zolkin, Santana had given the job to his company sergeant, knowing Dietrich had more than enough experience to handle it. “Okay,” Santana said evenly. “Let’s hit the dirt. Six out.”

  More than a thousand feet below Oron IV’s harsh surface, Subcommander Sig Byap sat within a pressurized chamber and watched the Confederacy ship lift. It was just what he’d been hoping for, except that rather than take the alien soldiers along with it, the reentry-scarred vessel had deposited them on the surface, where the ugly-looking creatures were pumping air into a field hab.

  The Ramanthian swore as the assault boat hovered for a moment and stirred up a vortex of dust before crossing the defensive perimeter and accelerating away. Then, as a large knot continued to form in his belly, the officer watched a four-legged cyborg turn and “look” his way. Missile racks appeared along both sides of the quad’s hull—and there was a momentary flash of light as one of them fired. Camera 36 went dark a fraction of a second later. Having missed the carefully concealed surcams during initial sweeps of the area, it appeared that subsequent efforts had been more successful, as 92 percent of Byap’s surveillance devices were taken off-line. That meant the eggless scum knew about the subsurface storage facility and intended to capture or destroy it, which the degenerates would very likely be able to accomplish thanks to the amount of firepower they had.