So what to do? Santana could marshal his forces, such as they were, and attempt to break out. Or, remain where he was, and let the chits come to him. But one thing was for sure. . . . Kobbi’s convoy was busy fighting for its life—so there wouldn’t be any help from that quarter. And Santana knew the clock was ticking. Any group that failed to exit the mountains along with the main column ran the risk of being left on Gamma-014. That, given the way Ramanthians treated their prisoners, was tantamount to a death sentence.
Such were Santana’s thoughts as he noticed something strange, swallowed the last of his caf, and made his way out to the perimeter. Marine Sergeant Pimm saw the officer coming. He had come to respect Santana over the last few days, which was nothing short of a frigging miracle, since everybody knew the Legion was nothing more than a collection of criminals, wackos, and freaks. Pimm nodded politely. “Good morning, sir.”
Santana’s eyes were fixed on a point beyond the log barricade. He said, “Good morning, Sergeant,” drew his sidearm, and vaulted over the logs. Then, as the mystified noncom looked on, the legionnaire took four paces forward and aimed his weapon at a spiral of wispy vapor. There was a loud blam, blam, blam as the officer fired his pistol. Brass casings arced away from the weapon, something heaved under the snow, and blood colored it red.
And that was when all hell broke loose as thirty or forty Ramanthian commandos threw off thermal blankets and rose from the ground. Having concealed their heat signatures with the blankets, the bugs had been able to sneak up on the encampment during the night. Then, once they were within grenade-throwing range of the encampment, the Ramanthians allowed the snow to cover them over. But they had to breathe, and that was what had given them away.
Two commandos were within six feet of Santana. The cavalry officer shot one of the Ramanthians in the face, whirled, and shot the other. Then, as he backed his way toward the barricade, Santana emptied his pistol at a fourth commando. That was when Sergeant Pimm grabbed onto the officer’s battle harness from behind and jerked him over the barricade. There was a loud carump as the first mortar round hit, killed one of the CVAs, and sent a column of blood, mud, and snow up into the air.
The marines were firing by then, as were the legionnaires, but the surviving commandos were only yards away. Grenades sailed though the air, landed, and went off one after another. A Seebo was decapitated by flying shrapnel, a legionnaire went down with a shard of metal in his thigh, and flying fragments clanged as they hit the half-tracks. Somewhere off in the distance, shrill whistles could be heard, along with an alien bugling sound, as Ramanthian regulars rushed to join the fray. Daylight attacks were rare, but with the commandos to lead the way, the bugs had been about to launch one. Santana was back on his feet by then— the decision having been made for him. There was no avenue of escape. Alpha Company would stay and fight.
So as Lupo’s onboard computer calculated trajectories for the incoming mortar shells, and the quad sent a volley of short-range missiles racing toward the enemy tubes, Santana offered words of encouragement as the company prepared to defend itself. The legionnaires and their allies had camped inside the perimeter that Colonel Six had established for his troops, and thanks to the fact that the cavalry officer had been able to bring the rest of his command around the south end of the lake during the hours of darkness, all of them were in one place. Which was fortunate indeed. Since two separate groups would have been hard-pressed to defend themselves.
Having located Corporal Thain, the officer gave the cyborg a concise set of orders, before turning back toward the center of camp. Millar was there, half-hidden by a track, firing his energy cannon at the enemy. Another defender would have been useful, but Santana had something more important for the recon ball to do, and gave the cyborg new orders. Then, having called upon Dietrich to fire some smoke grenades toward the north, the scout vanished into the resulting fog.
Thanks to Lieutenant Zolkin’s earlier efforts, ordnance of all kinds had been unloaded from the vehicles and divided between three widely spaced bunkers to avoid the possibility that a single explosion would destroy all their ammo. So, when the outgoing fire fell off, Hoyt-11,791 and her CVAs rushed to resupply the troops. Especially the T-2s, who couldn’t reload their own magazines.
As Santana continued to make the rounds, the cavalry officer realized that insofar as combat troops were concerned, he was down to eight of Alpha Company’s bio bods, half a dozen marines, four loyal Seebos from the transportation platoon, and five T-2s. The rest had departed with Thain. Unfortunately, some of his legionnaires were tied up guarding Six, the treacherous Dr. Kelly, and the thirty-six Seebos who remained loyal to the renegade. All of them were seated hip to hip in two rows behind one of their own half-tracks.
But there was nothing Santana could do about that as more whistles were heard and the real infantry assault began. “Don’t let them reach the perimeter!” Santana shouted, as he brought his CA-10 up to his shoulder and began to fire. “Lupo! Everything outside of a hundred yards belongs to you!”
The quad heard the command via the company push and went to work with all four of his gang-mounted energy cannons. They fired in alternating sequence, but so rapidly that the fire appeared to be continuous, as iridescent energy bolts sleeted across the free-fire zone and carved black swaths through the snow. Dozens of Ramanthians simply ceased to exist, as their bodies were vaporized, and steam fogged the atmosphere.
Meanwhile, closer in, the bio bods, backed by the highly mobile T-2s, were giving a good account of themselves. The vehicle-mounted fifties continued to chug methodically, the lighter weapons chattered, and exploding grenades threw columns of dirty snow up into the air as clusters of bugs went down. But like the waves of an incoming tide, Santana saw that each drift of bodies was closer to the perimeter than the last had been, and wondered how much longer they would be able to hold.
Suddenly an airborne Ramanthian was there, descending from above to land directly on top of the log barricade, then the trooper was gone in a brilliant flash of light. The payoff for the trooper’s act of self-sacrifice was a dead legionnaire and a four-foot-wide hole in the camp’s defenses. Both Santana and a force of Ramanthians rushed toward the gap. “Torrez!’ the officer shouted. “Hayashi! To me!”
Both T-2s responded, bringing their considerable firepower to bear on a point fifty feet out from the newly created hole, and that’s where the oncoming Ramanthians seemed to collide with an invisible wall. They staggered, and fell in heaps, which made it difficult for those behind them to advance. But still the enemy came, wave after wave of them, as if willing to absorb every bullet the defenders had if that was the price of victory. Sergeant Pimm went down when a bullet smashed through his throat, and Hoyt- 11,791 stepped in to take his place on the firing line. Death owned the valley—and the day had barely begun.
Millar’s assignment was simple. He could remember Santana’s exact words: “Find the Ramanthian sonofabitch and kill him!” By which the cavalry officer meant the bug who was directing the attack on the allied encampment. But that was easier said than done. Even though the recon ball had been able to exit the encampment under cover of Dietrich’s smoke screen, his presence had not gone unnoticed. Although the chits didn’t believe in cyborgs, they had robotic remotes, which could be used for reconnaissance missions. And the scout hadn’t traveled more than a thousand yards before one of the pesky machines locked on to his heat signature and began to follow him.
That forced Millar to waste valuable time turning around and going after the machine, which—though lightly armed—was highly maneuverable and quite speedy. But, after a three-minute chase, Millar had been able to catch up with the robot and destroy it with a single bolt from his energy cannon.
Having resumed his original mission, the cyborg was concealed within a grove of trees peering out into an open meadow located about a mile north of the allied encampment. And what he saw shocked him. Even more Ramanthians were streaming into the open area, where they were formed
into the equivalent of platoons before being sent south into the fray! That made the task of killing their commanding officer all the more important.
But, while the grouping of what the scout assumed to be officers was within range of his .50-caliber gun, the stubby barrel was way too short to produce sufficient accuracy over the distance required. The obvious answer was to get closer before taking his shot. But with no trees for cover, that wouldn’t be possible.
The reality of that sent a trickle of liquid lead into Millar’s nonexistent belly as whistles blew, another wave of troopers were sent forward, and machines guns chattered to the south. The legionnaire had already been killed once, and didn’t want to die again, but couldn’t see any other option. So the recon ball shot out of the trees, skimmed the snow, and began the long, hazardous run. There weren’t any trees, but there were outcroppings of rock, which would provide at least some cover so long as he stayed low.
None of the Ramanthian officers noticed the threat at first, partly because they were preoccupied with what they were doing, and partly because the terrain-following cyborg was hard to see as he weaved his way between boulders and occasional clusters of ground-hugging shrubs.
But right about the time that Millar was halfway to his goal one of the Ramanthians spotted him, clacked an alert, and the entire group turned to fire at him. That was bad, but not as bad as it might have been, since the officers were armed with pistols rather than assault weapons.
Still, the legionnaire had no armor to speak of, and felt a sudden stab of “pain” as a well-aimed bullet penetrated his casing and appropriate electronic impulses arrived at his forebrain. The damage triggered electronic warnings as well, which his onboard computer projected in front of Millar’s “vision,” making it harder to concentrate. The problem was that he didn’t know which bug was in overall command. So the logical solution was to kill all the bastards and let whatever god the Ramanthians believed in sort them out. Having closed the distance between himself and his targets, the recon ball opened fire.
Having stood their ground against the unconventional attack, the Ramanthian officers were easy meat for the cyborg’s fifty and were literally torn to bloody rags as the huge slugs hit them. Body parts cartwheeled through the air, severed wings spiraled down, and a blood mist soaked the snow. But the noise and motion drew the attention of some incoming troops, one of whom was toting a rocket launcher that he was quick-witted enough to fire. Millar “heard” a warning tone, knew there wouldn’t be any reprieve this time, and felt an explosion of warmth as the heat-seeking missile weapon caught up with him. Suddenly he was free.
Sending Corporal Thain plus three precious T-2s out of the encampment during the first few minutes of the attack had been a risky thing to do. But now, as the hard-pressed allies struggled to hold on, Santana hoped his gamble would pay off. And it did. Insofar as the chits knew, all the animals were directly in front of them. So when four highly lethal T-2s hit their left flank, the Ramanthians were caught entirely by surprise.
Dozens of enemy troopers were swept off their feet as the vengeful legionnaires opened fire on them. The cyborgs were always fast, but never more so than when unencumbered by a bio bod, which meant they were difficult to hit. So as the latest wave of Ramanthians turned toward the new threat, it was only to encounter four whirling dervishes, each operating in perfect synchronization with all the rest. Guns chugged, energy cannons whined, and it seemed as if nothing could stop them until a rocket-propelled grenade hit Private Imbi Yat in the chest.
The force of the resulting explosion blew the cyborg in half, which gave the bugs reason to hope—until Thain and the rest of the T-2s took their revenge. The ensuing slaughter lasted less than three minutes but took nearly a hundred lives. And when it was done, an eerie silence settled over the battlefield as bleary-eyed defenders took a moment to reload, and Santana had time to view the video Lieutenant Millar had sent him. The pictures were truly worth a thousand words—and would be submitted to Kobbi along with a request for a posthumous medal if Santana survived. A battle had been won, but the price had been very, very high. And, as Santana looked out over piles of gently steaming bodies, he knew the worst was yet to come.
19
Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will say “This was their finest hour.”
—Sir Winston Churchill
To the House of Commons
Standard year 1940
PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE REPUBLIC
As Santana entered the quad, he quickly discovered that the interior of Lupo’s cargo bay was splattered with blood. Lots of blood. And there, at the very center of the bay, stood Dr. Kira Kelly. A makeshift operating table had been set up—with her on one side and Hospital Corpsman Sumi on the other. A third person stood with his back to the hatch. The cavalry officer hadn’t had time to think about the prisoners during the battle, but as he looked at Kelly, Santana felt a sudden surge of anger. “The doctor is supposed to be under guard. . . . Who released her?”
“That would be me,” Lieutenant Gregory Zolkin said, as he turned to look at his commanding officer. The word “sir” was noticeably missing from the sentence, and Santana saw no sign of an apology in the other officer’s dark eyes.
Santana realized that the platoon leader had been pressed into service as Kelly’s anesthesiologist. More than that, the company commander was struck by the extent to which Zolkin had changed since the raid on Oron IV. Somewhere along the line the young, frequently insecure youth Santana had known back then, had been transformed into a battle-hardened lieutenant. Who, in the wake of Amoyo’s recent death, was not only a platoon leader but the company’s XO. And a man willing to employ the services of the devil herself if that was required to save one of his legionnaires.
It was impossible to tell who the patient was from Santana’s vantage point, but the legionnaire’s purplish intestines were piled high atop his or her chest. Kelly was sorting through the coils looking for holes. Santana’s expression softened. “Who is it?”
Zolkin looked down and back up again. “Private Oneeye Knifeplay, sir. He was standing on a track, firing a fifty, when an incoming slug hit metal and bounced up under his armor. He was going to die, sir. And Dr. Kelly offered to help.”
Kelly turned her head toward Santana at that point. Most of her face was invisible behind a blood-splattered surgical mask, but he could still see her eyes. “What I did was wrong,” the naval officer admitted bleakly. “But I’m a pretty good doctor. And the only one you have.”
Santana saw the determination in her eyes and nodded. “Point taken. Carry on.” And with that, the officer turned and exited the quad. It was cold outside, and getting steadily colder, as day gradually surrendered to night. Snow crunched under his boots, the moisture in his nasal passages froze, and his cheeks felt numb. But people were working in spite of the cold. Having failed earlier in the day, the Ramanthians were sure to take another shot at their enemies during the hours of darkness, which was why the battle-weary legionnaires, marines, and clones were busy trying to improve the encampment’s defenses. Especially the log barricades, which had never been intended for a major battle, and were in need of reinforcement.
But Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich had a solution for that and was busy supervising repairs. Having decided that there wasn’t enough time to fell more trees and drag them into position, the noncom was making use of dead Ramanthians instead. There were hundreds of them, most of whom were rock-hard, and made excellent building blocks. The trick was to alternate the way the corpses were stacked to add stability.
Of course every now and then the master sergeant’s work detail would come across a bug who was badly wounded, and unconscious, or not so badly wounded and hoping to escape notice. The solution was the same in either case. Such individuals were shot before being added to the steadily growing defensive wall, where some of them seemed to stare out at th
e world through frosty cataracts.
Dietrich was helping one of the CVAs hoist a Ramanthian noncom onto the north section of the barricade when Santana arrived. “There,” Dietrich said, as he stepped back to admire his work. “The wall is a lot thicker—and I like a tidy battlefield.”
Santana couldn’t help but grin. “I’ll make a note in your next performance review. ‘While often drunk, and frequently disrespectful, Master Sergeant Dietrich insists on a tidy battlefield.’ ”
“That’s a fair assessment,” the legionnaire agreed cheerfully. “I’ll take it!”
Santana felt a snowflake kiss his nose and shoved his hands farther into his pockets. “They’re going to hit us hard.”
The noncom nodded soberly. “I know.”
“If I fall, give Lieutenant Zolkin all the support you can. And if he falls, then save as many people as possible.”
The possibility that he could wind up in command hadn’t occurred to Dietrich until then. It was a depressing prospect. “Don’t be silly, sir,” the noncom replied lightly. “You’re too mean to die! The lieutenant and I will have to get our promotions the hard way.”
The conversation was interrupted as Private Kay Kaimo arrived on the scene. She had been assigned to guard the Seebos and was coming off duty. “Excuse me, sir,” the legionnaire said politely. “But Colonel Six would like a word with you.”
Santana raised an eyebrow. “Really? About what?”
Kaimo shook her head. “I don’t know, sir. The colonel didn’t say.”
“Okay,” Santana replied. “Thanks.”
“Keep up the good work,” Santana said, as he turned back to Dietrich. “Although I would prefer to have the enemy bodies stacked according to regiment next time.”
“Screw you, sir,” the noncom replied. “And the cyborg you rode in on.”
Santana laughed and made his way over to one of four well-screened campfires. That’s where Colonel Six and his Seebos sat huddled around a crackling blaze. It was dark by then, which meant that more than thirty nearly identical faces were all lit by the same flickering glow. Two legionnaires were present as well—their assault weapons at the ready. One of the clones stood expectantly—and Santana motioned him forward. Six was badly in need of a shave—and snowflakes had started to accumulate on his shoulders. The officer’s tone was humble. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
When Duty Calls Page 34
