Santana shrugged. “You’re welcome. . . . What’s on your mind?”
Six stared into the legionnaire’s eyes. “The Ramanthians will attack tonight.”
“That possibility had occurred to me,” Santana replied dryly.
“And they’re going to win,” Six predicted. “Unless you get reinforcements—which both of us know you won’t. So turn us loose!” he said hurriedly. “We’ll fight beside you. And I think you’ll agree that thirty-six additional soldiers could make a big difference.”
“Yes, they could,” Santana agreed soberly. “But what happens later on? When the battle is over?”
“We’ll lay down our arms,” Six promised. “Or keep them if need be—under your command.”
“It sounds good,” Santana admitted. “But no thanks. . . . I wouldn’t trust you farther than I could throw a half-track.”
“You don’t have to trust me,” the other man replied earnestly. His voice was pitched so low that the other Seebos couldn’t hear. “You have someone that means a lot to me and I wouldn’t leave here without.”
“Dr. Kelly?”
“Exactly,” the clone agreed defiantly.
The offer was tempting. Very tempting. Because thirty-six additional defenders would make an important difference. Especially given the fact that the Seebos were crack troops. Literally bred to fight—and tough as nails. But the colonel was accused of murder.
Still, the Legion had the means to keep potentially rebellious cyborgs under control, so why not use a similar technique on Six? Not too surprisingly the clone objected to the concept Santana put forward. But, if the Seebo wanted to live, he had very little choice. Sergeant Jose Ramos was something of a genius where explosives were concerned, and it was he who came up with the combination leg shackle and bomb. A tidy little device that Santana, Zolkin, or Dietrich could trigger remotely anytime one of them chose to do so. It wouldn’t kill Six, not immediately, but it would blow his right foot off. Suddenly, what had been a seemingly hopeless situation, was just a little bit better.
The animals had been weakened during the previous day. Subcommander Jaos Nubb knew that. So rather than take the more measured approach that his dead predecessor had—Nubb had chosen to send all his troops in at once. The majority of them were members of the much vaunted Death Hammer Regiment and therefore among the most valiant soldiers the empire had to offer. So it was with a sense of confidence that the officer led his troops into battle. And simultaneously called upon his secret weapon, which was in orbit one thousand three hundred miles above the planet’s surface.
The Star Taker had been busy of late, chasing dozens of little ships and snuffing them out of existence, so the ship’s crew welcomed the opportunity to settle into orbit and fire on some ground coordinates for a change—even if that meant allowing some civilian vessels to escape. The problem, to the extent that there was one, had to do with the question of accuracy. Because based on data provided by Subcommander Nubb, there was very little distance between his troops and enemy forces. Which meant even a small error could have tragic results. So great care was taken while calculating all of the many variables involved. But finally, on an order from Nubb, one of the destroyer’s big guns spoke. An artificial comet was born and slashed down through the atmosphere toward the surface below.
Santana recognized the freight-train rumble the moment he heard it. But it was Dietrich who shouted, “Incoming!” and beat the officer into one of the recently improved bunkers. The blue lightning bolt fell on a half-track, blew the vehicle apart, and killed the Seebos who had been stationed at the vehicle’s machine guns. The second bolt punched a hole in the ice-covered lake, brought the surrounding water to a momentary boil, and sent a geyser of steam fifty feet into the air. The third impact opened a gap in the southern portion of the defensive wall, erased a Hoyt, and opened a grave in which to bury her remains. Dirt and rocks fell like rain. Then while the allies were still taking shelter in their various holes, the Ramanthians attacked. Fortunately, Sergeant Suresee Fareye, who had been sent to scout the enemy, gave the warning. “This is Alpha Six-Four. . . . Here they come! Over.”
That brought all the troops back up and most were in place by the time the tsunami of chitin and flesh struck. There was no opportunity to think about tactics or give orders because Santana was fighting for his life. A hellish symphony of explosions, gunfire, and alien bugle calls were heard as flares threw a ghastly glow over the scene and began their slow descent. The cavalry officer could see hundreds of bugs, all shuffling forward as quickly as they could, determined to roll over the encampment and kill everyone within.
But if the bugs were a wave, the allies were a rock, and the volume of outgoing fire was stupendous. Between the cyborgs, each of whom packed firepower equivalent to a squad of regular troops, and the newly reinforced bio bods, Alpha Company was an immovable object. And with no soldiers left in reserve, there was nothing Nubb could do, but throw himself at the wall of dead bodies. A valiant thing to do, but largely meaningless, because he was killed within seconds.
The assault came to an end five minutes later, when the heretofore stationary Lupo lurched to his feet, stepped over the grisly barricade, and went on the offensive. With a pack of agile T-2s to protect his flanks, the cyborg went bug hunting. The surviving Ramanthians ran. And the results, as summarized by Master Sergeant Dietrich, were nothing less than: “Goddamned wonderful!” Which, all things considered, was pretty good.
General Mortimer Kobbi had two recon balls left—and made good use of both as the nine-mile-long column snaked its way toward the west. By plugging into what the airborne cyborgs could see, Kobbi could monitor what was happening from his place near the front of the formation. The good news, if one could call it that, was that because the allied force was 10 percent smaller as it left Yal-Am, it was that much speedier. Or would have been, if it hadn’t been for a long series of Ramanthian-triggered avalanches, well-conceived ambushes, and cleverly hidden mines.
As the allies waited for the latest rockslide to be cleared, Kobbi raised his binos. Hundreds of Ramanthian troops could be seen streaming along the tops of ridges to the north and south. The bugs were paralleling the allies, waiting for the chance to close in, and that opportunity was coming. Fifteen miles ahead, at a place called the Ordo gorge, the bugs would have the perfect opportunity to converge on the column as it was forced to cross a narrow two-lane bridge.
That was bad enough. But even worse from Kobbi’s point of view was the fact that if the span were blown, the allies would be trapped in the mountains, and cut off from the lowlands to the west. That was where Maylo Chien-Chu and her ragtag fleet of yachts, freighters, and other civilian vessels were supposed to pick the soldiers up. But only if the bridge was still in place when the column arrived at the Ordo gorge.
And that was a problem because the little general lacked the fly-forms necessary to airlift troops to the span. All of his attempts to send infantry forward had been blocked by a sequence of well-executed ambushes. So the officer felt a sudden sense of jubilation when a familiar voice was heard on the command push. “Alpha Six to Six-One. Over.”
“This is Six-One,” Kobbi replied. “Go. Over.”
“We have him,” Santana said meaningfully. “And the hostages. Over.”
“That’s wonderful,” Kobbi enthused, as he lowered his visor. A series of eye blinks summoned the map he was looking for, the blue “snake” that represented the column, and Alpha Company’s pulsing triangle. Kobbi was thrilled to see that Santana’s company was on the highway ahead, only six miles from the Ordo bridge!
It was impossible to conceal the excitement Kobbi felt as he gave his orders. “I’m sure you’ve been through a lot—but we could use Alpha Company’s help. Proceed six miles due west, take the bridge over the Ordo River, and secure it. We will get there as soon as we can. Over.”
There was a pause as Santana eyed the map projected on the inside surface of his visor, followed by a laconic, “Yes, sir.
Alpha Six out.”
Kobbi, who could hardly believe his good luck, removed his helmet and looked up into the lead gray sky. “Thank you, God,” the general said humbly. “Thank you for one more chance.”
Sergeant Suresee Fareye was on point with Private Ka Nhan. Santana, Deker, and three additional T-2s were half a mile back, closely followed by the quad, two surviving half-tracks, and Lieutenant Zolkin’s platoon, a configuration that ensured both halves of the company would have leadership if the formation were cut in two.
Having won the battle at the lake and having covered the four miles back to the highway without encountering any Ramanthians, Santana had been hoping to rejoin the main column. But now, as Alpha Company followed the highway west, he understood the dilemma Kobbi faced. The bridge at Ordo gorge was both a choke point and the critical link to the section of the highway that would carry the allies down to the flatlands beyond.
The question, to the cavalry officer’s mind at least, was whether the bridge was still in place. And if so, why? General Akoto was a smart old bug—and not the sort of officer to forget a strategic choke point. So if the bridge had been left standing, there was a reason. Or reasons. One of those could be that having been able to defeat the allies, the Ramanthians might want to preserve the bridge, rather than being forced to construct a new one.
But whatever the truth, Santana knew he would find out soon enough. Meanwhile, of more immediate concern were the Ramanthian troops clearly visible to the north and south. They were traveling along the ridgetops, which, according to the topo map projected onto the cavalry officer’s HUD, were going to converge a half mile east of the bridge! Which meant the bugs were going where he was going. A very unpleasant prospect indeed. Especially if the chits got there first. Which, had more of them been able to fly, they almost certainly would have. “This is Alpha Six,” Santana said, over the company push. “Let’s pick up the pace. Out.”
There was snow and ice to contend with, plus burned-out wrecks that had to be pushed out of the way so the half-tracks could squeeze through, but the weary troops did their best. Most were operating on no more than three hours’ sleep, hadn’t had a proper meal in two days, and many had wounds sustained during the battle by the lake.
The legionnaire’s thoughts were interrupted by Fareye’s voice on the radio. “The bridge is intact, sir,” the Naa said as he examined the surrounding bluffs. “But I’m not sure why. Over.”
“Maybe the Ramanthians have plans for it,” Santana replied. “We’ll be there shortly. Cross over, push two miles down the highway, and settle in. If bugs come in from the west, I want as much warning as possible. Out.”
Fareye replied with the traditional double click and ordered Nhan forward. He felt exposed on the bridge, knew someone was watching him, and wondered if he would hear the shot that killed him.
As Deker rounded a corner, and began to make his way down a 10-percent grade, Santana saw the span up ahead. It was a well-maintained steel-arch bridge. According to the data file that was associated with those coordinates, it was about 3,250 feet long. The structure was two lanes wide, had been constructed twenty-eight years earlier, and was 610 feet high. “Okay,” Santana said, as Deker arrived at the east end of the span. “I need a volunteer. . . . Someone with a head for heights. Over.”
“That would be any one of us,” Colonel Six said, from the passenger seat in the first half-track. “Take your pick. Over.” The clones had been allowed to keep their weapons, thanks to the fact that Dr. Kelly was locked up inside Lupo, and Santana had Six on a short leash. “Good enough,” the cavalry officer replied. “If you would be so good as to select a couple of your men, and send them down to inspect the underbelly of this bridge, I would be most appreciative. Over.”
“So we’re looking for explosives? Over.”
“Exactly,” Santana said succinctly. “Alpha Six out.”
Having dispatched Dietrich to help lower the Seebos over the edge, and keep an eye on them, Santana turned his attention back to what he saw as the most pressing issue. And that was the defense of the bridge.
But what if that was where Akoto wanted the allies to focus their attention? What if the real attack came from the west? Santana lacked sufficient resources to put a large force on the far side of the span, but Lupo couldn’t climb the surrounding slopes, so it made sense to send him across. The cavalry officer gave the necessary orders and held his breath as the huge cyborg began the 3,250-foot-long journey. Lupo was at risk, as were all of those within his cargo compartment, including Kelly and her patients. Thankfully, the trip went off without a hitch, and it was only a matter of minutes before the big cyborg was on the far side of gorge, and marching down the highway.
Having secured the other end of the bridge to the extent he could, it was time for Santana to address the surrounding heights. Rather than wait for the bugs to occupy them, and come swarming down, the legionnaire was determined to cut the insectoid aliens off on the ridgetops, where the flow of enemy soldiers would be severely restricted. It was a made-to-order situation for his T-2s, any one of whom could single-handedly stop such an advance, so long as he or she had adequate cover and plenty of ammo. To avoid any such calamity, Santana planned to place two cyborgs on each ridge. That would allow them to rotate in and out of combat while hardworking CVAs humped ammo to them from below.
No sooner had the T-2s been sent on their way than Colonel Six appeared at his side. Santana was standing on the bridge deck by then—having sent Deker up onto the south ridge. So the men were eye to eye as the clone delivered his report. “You were correct,” the Seebo confirmed. “Explosives are hidden under both ends of the bridge. That’s why the bugs left the span in place. They can blow it anytime they want to.”
Santana felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise. Somewhere, within direct line of sight, a Ramanthian was watching them through a pair of Y-shaped bug binos. Lupo was a high-priority target, but the bugs had allowed the quad to cross in spite of that fact, which seemed to suggest that the chits had an even bigger payoff in mind. So what were they trying to accomplish? Stall the allied column and destroy it just short of the span? And thereby preserve the bridge? Or wait until the allies were streaming across and blow the structure at that point to inflict the maximum number of casualties? There was no way to be sure. “Can we disarm the explosives?” the cavalry officer inquired mildly.
“I don’t know,” Six said honestly. “They’re probably booby-trapped.”
“Yeah, that would make sense,” Santana agreed.
“But there might be another way to deal with the problem,” the Seebo put in.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“We could screen the explosives off, so the bugs can’t see what we’re up to,” Six replied. “Then, rather than disarm the explosives, we’ll remove the steel beams they’re attached to. There’s a cutting torch on each half-track.”
Santana frowned. “That’s a clever idea, but won’t it weaken the bridge? Each quad weighs fifty tons.”
“There’s a lot of structural redundancy in any well-built bridge,” Six insisted confidently. “And we won’t remove any more steel than we absolutely have to.”
Not being an engineer, the cavalry officer wasn’t so sure, but couldn’t see any alternatives, and knew the main column would arrive soon. “Okay, Colonel,” Santana said. “Make it happen.”
Six took note of the “Colonel,” an honorific that had been noticeably absent up until that point, and knew it was Santana’s way of communicating respect. Not approval, but respect, which was more important to the Seebo’s way of thinking. He nodded. “Can I ask a favor?”
“That depends on what it is,” Santana replied cautiously.
“Look after Dr. Kelly. Get her off Gamma-014 if you can.”
“I’ll do my best to get both of you off the planet,” Santana promised. “So they can put you on trial.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ ” Six replied, and did a neat about-fa
ce. And with that, he was gone.
Lead elements of Kobbi’s column arrived fifteen minutes later, but were forced to stop, or risk crossing the booby-trapped bridge. Right about the same time the insistent rattle of machine-gun fire was heard, as the Ramanthians attempted to push their way off the ridgetops, only to be met by a hail of bullets when the waiting legionnaires fired on them.
Then, as General Kobbi and his T-2 arrived on the scene, Fareye called in. “Alpha Six-Four to Alpha Six. Four Gantha tanks are coming my way—followed by what looks like a battalion of troops. Over.”
Now Santana understood. Rather than simply cut the column off, Akoto planned to eradicate it, and the Ordo gorge crossing had been chosen as the place to accomplish that task. If the column remained where it was, the Ramanthian general would catch it from behind, and if his troops were able to break through, they would attack the allies from above. Meanwhile, if the fugitives attempted to advance, they would collide with the Gantha tanks. Or go down with the bridge. The bugs had all the cards.
Kobbi had access to the company push, so he understood as well. “The bastard has us by the balls,” the little officer said, as he dropped to the ground. His breath fogged the ozone-tinged air and ice crunched under his boots.
Santana resisted the impulse to salute, knew that could identify the general to any snipers lurking about, and nodded instead as Fareye called in. “Yes, sir. Hold one. I read you, Six-Four. Maintain visual contact but pull back.” There was a double click by way of a reply.
When Duty Calls Page 35
