Eye of the Storm

by John Ringo

  "Whoa, Mike. You're a nice guy and outrank me by a whole grade, but the hell if I'll piss my career away for you. The colonel will have my bar if I do that." The lieutenant tried to shake his head and stopped when he had to force it against the biotic gel filling the helmet.

  "Lieutenant Colonel Youngman is currently busy and he won't notice unless we detonate them. When we detonate them, you will be a hero for taking the initiative because it will be the only thing that saves the right flank of the corps from being rolled up."

  "Is it that bad?" asked the engineer, wondering how much his friend's moroseness was justified. Although he would have preferred to lay out a full reception for the Posleen, the firepower of the battalion was massive.

  "Tom, we're about to be corncobbed and there ain't a fuckin' thing I can do about it. After this day the name Youngman will be right up there with Custer, except George Armstrong had a brilliant career before he pissed it away. Now get rigging the charges. Make the cratering charges big ones. I want them to tear the faces right off the megascrapers; they've got forty minutes max."

  "So you did, in fact, order Lieutenant Eamons to emplace the charges that eventually destroyed the Qualtren Megascraper," the commander said. "I think we'll try to argue situational stress disorder."

  "The order was later authorized by Lieutenant Colonel Youngman," Mike said.

  "Can you prove that?" the commander asked.

  "The AID net should have the entire conversation stored."

  "AIDs cannot be interrogated in courts-martial," the commander pointed out.

  "Then I'd guess you'll have to find a survivor," Mike replied. "Besides me." He paused and thought about the events of that night. "Good luck on that one."

  They were in a subbasement headed he knew not where running down one wall of a mammoth warehouse. The shelves were filled with green drums, like rubber oil barrels. As the lieutenant passed one of the aisles, both their AIDs screamed a belated warning. The group of fifty or so Posleen, accompanied by a God King, opened fire on Lieutenant O'Neal with everything they had.

  There were six high-density inertial compensators along the spine of the suit. They had been placed there to prevent severe inertial damage to the most vital portions of the user. Lieutenant O'Neal launched himself into the air and away from the threat, an instinct of hundreds of hours of simulations, while his AID dialed the inertial compensators as low as they would go. This had several effects, good and bad but the net effect was to make it less likely that the flechettes would penetrate his armor as they had the private's; at this range their penetration ability was vastly improved.

  The lack of inertia permitted the suit to move aside or be pushed away as if no more substantial than a hummingbird. Combined with the strength of the armor it successfully shed the first sleet of rounds, but it made him as unstable as a ping pong ball in a hurricane. He was picked up by the impacts, flipped repeatedly end for end, struck the warehouse wall and blown sideways.

  Sergeant Reese screamed and fired on the target vector flashing in his display. The Posleen were masked by the barrels, but he figured with the power of the grav rifle he could saw through them quickly and take the Posleen under direct fire.

  As it happened, actually hitting the Posleen became unnecessary. The barrels throughout the entire warehouse were filled with an oil processed from algae. It was used by the Indowy in cooking. Ubiquitous as corn oil, the five million Indowy of Qualtren used so much they needed a half kilometer square warehouse. Like corn oil, it had a fairly high flash point but, given certain conditions it could burn, even explode.

  The depleted uranium pellets of the grav-guns traveled at a noticeable fraction of the speed of light. The designers had carefully balanced maximum kinetic effect against the problem of relativistic ionization and its accompanying radiation. The result was a tiny teardrop that went so fast it defied description. It made any bullet ever made seem to stand still. Far faster than any meteor, rounds that did not impact left the planet's orbit to become a spatial navigation hazard. It punched a hole through the atmosphere so fierce that it stripped the electrons from the atoms of gas and turned them into ions. The energy bled in its travel was so high it created a shock front of electromagnetic pulse. Then, after it passed, the atoms and electrons recombined in a spectacular display of chemistry and physics. Photons of light were discharged, heat was released and free radicals, ozone and buckyballs were produced. The major by-product was the tunnel of energetic ions indistinguishable from lightning. Just as hot, and just as energetic. A natural spark plug.

  In two seconds a thousand of these supremely destructive teardrops punched through fifty drums of fish oil. One pellet was enough to finely divide a drum of oil over two to three thousand cubic meters of air. The following rounds found only vapor and these excess pellets, following the immutable laws of physics, set out to find other drums to divide. The oil from thousands of drums suddenly flash blasted into gas then ignited from compression, rather like a diesel piston. The net effect was a fuel-air bomb, the next best thing to a nuclear weapon in Terran technology, and the basement warehouse became a gigantic diesel cylinder. For Sergeant Reese, in an instant the world flashed to fire.

  The warehouse was two levels below ground. It had six levels below it and was three hundred fifty meters from Boulevard Sisalav, a hundred fifty meters from Avenue Qual. The fuel air explosion blasted a two-hundred-meter diameter crater down to bedrock, gutted the building for a kilometer upward and set off all the charges planted for Plan Jericho. The shockwave smashed structural members all the way to Sisalav and Qual and spit many of the remaining troopers on the ground floor out of the building like watermelon seeds. It killed every unarmored being in the mile cube structure: three hundred twenty-six thousand Indowy and eight thousand particularly quick and greedy Posleen. The Jericho charges worked as planned, shattering a hundred twenty critical monocrystalline support members. With surprising grace, the mile-high edifice leaned to the northwest and slowly, as if reverently kneeling, fell into Daltrev, blocking Sisalav and Qual and smashing the southeast quadrant of Daltrev. It crushed more Posleen and completely blocked an enemy advance from the massif to Qualtrev.

  "And subsequent to the explosion?" the commander asked emotionlessly.

  "I tried to get in touch with the chain of command," Mike said. "Colonel Youngman was dead. Captain Vero was unconscious. Captain Wright was trapped in something too solid to get through and Hiberzined himself to await recovery. I consolidated local survivors and contacted Major Pauley."

  The chirp of connection cued him. "Major Pauley, it's Lieutenant O'Neal."

  "O'Neal? What the hell do you want?"

  "Sir, I am currently in command of the survivors gathered under Qualtren. I was looking for orders, sir." Mike watched the NCO leading a group across the scattered rubble. The first suit to reach the far side grabbed a piece of rubble and pulled it out. There was a prompt slide into its place and a section of ceiling fell out, momentarily trapping one of the other troops. With some hand motions and swearing on a side channel Green got the group to move more circumspectly.

  "Who the hell put you in command?" demanded the distant officer.

  "Captain Wright, sir," answered O'Neal. He was expecting some resistance but the harshness of Pauley's voice made him instantly wary.

  "And where the hell is Wright?"

  "Can I deliver my report, sir?"

  "No, dangit, I don't want your dang report. I asked you where Captain Wright was." The panting of the officer over the circuit was eerie, like an obscene phone call.

  "Captain Wright is irretrievable with what we have available, Major. He put me in command of the mobile survivors and put himself into hibernation."

  "Well, the hell if any trumped up sergeant is going to lead MY troops," said the major, his voice cracking and ending on a high wavery note. "Where the hell are the rest of the officers?"

  "I am the only remaining officer, Major," O'Neal said reasonably. "There is one sergeant
first class, three staff sergeants and five sergeants, sir. I am the only officer on site."

  "I do not have time for this," spit the commander, "put me through to another officer."

  "Sir, I just said that there are no other officers."

  "Dangit, Lieutenant, get me Captain Wright and get him NOW or I'll have you COURT-MARTIALED!"

  "Sir," Mike choked. He began to realize that Major Pauley was not tracking well. The position of the retreating ACS battalion should have prepared him somewhat, but nothing could have fully prepared him, "Sir . . ." he started again.

  "Dangit, Lieutenant, get those troops back here NOW! I need all the forces I can get! I don't have time to eff around with this. Get me through to Captain Wright!"

  "Yes, sir," Mike did not know what to do, but ending this conversation would be a start. "I'll get the troops to your location as fast as I can and get Captain Wright to contact you as soon as possible."

  "That's better. And put him back in command, dang you. How dare you usurp command, you young puppy! I'll have you court-martialed for this! Put yourself on report!"

  "Yes, sir, right away, sir. Out here."

  "So you're saying that your direct chain of command was nonfunctional?" the Commander replied. "Are you an MD? A psychologist?"

  "You're supposed to be my counsel, not my inquisitor," Mike said. "No, I'm not an MD or a shrink. But Pauley couldn't even understand that I was the only officer down there. And come to think of it Captain Brandon and Major Norton both heard Colonel Youngman authorize the Jericho charges."

  "Lieutenant Colonel Robert Brandon retired from service some thirty years ago," the commander said. "He took colonization credits but his ship was, unfortunately, lost in transit. Major Charles Norton was killed in action on Earth in 2006. As was Captain Wright. Captain Vero exited the service after the action on Diess and committed suicide shortly thereafter."

  "So you're saying that I'm the only officer survivor of Diess," Mike said, his face stony. "Not too surprising. We had a really high casualty rate during the war. Hell, I'm about the only person I know who's alive from back then. They're all gone." He looked at the far wall and shook his head. "All gone."

  "Yes, well, that is regretable," the commander said without the slightest tone of regret. "Given any lack of witnesses to this supposed order by Colonel Youngman—"

  "Wait," Mike said, his brow furrowing. "What is the evidence against me? I mean, what is the prosecution using as evidence?"

  "You're not authorized to have that information," the commander replied.

  "Oh, that's just great!" Mike snarled. "They're saying that I wiped out my corps, they're saying that I killed a bunch of Indowy on purpose on Diess and I can't see any of the evidence? Why am I surprised? They shot my fucking STAFF right in front of my eyes! What's the damned purpose of this fucking trial anyway!" He strained at the bonds, willing to do anything for just one crack at one of these fuckers, including his so-called "Counsel." But all he could feel was his own bones breaking.

  "To see that justice is done, of course," the commander said tonelessly.

  " 'You are a prisoner because you have been accused,' " Mike said, laughing mirthlessly. "I plead guilty to saving a planet." He paused and then laughed. "Oh my God! That is what this is all about! If they can convict me from back then, then everything I've done since doesn't count, legally, does it? If it's all a war crime, I'm not owed a single pence, am I?"

  "I'm not sure what you're talking about," the commander said, apparently puzzled.

  "Then you don't have that need to know, 'Counselor,' " Mike said, chuckling. "Oh, wait, let me tell you. Then you can have a noose around your neck. See how it feels."

  "On the whole—" the commander said, suddenly nervous.

  "No, seriously, this is a really good story," Mike said.

  "I think this interview is at an end," the commander said, standing up.

  "The Darhel have been manipulating humans for thirty thousand years," Mike said, quickly. "There are humans on R-1496 Delta they planted there in cave-man days! And they're in violation of contract. They owe humans more money than they have in cash. If we call the marker, if I call the marker, they're bankrupt."

  "Why are you telling me this?" the commander snarled. "This has nothing to do with your crimes."

  "Because I want to see how many counsellors I can go through," Mike replied, grinning. " 'First thing we do, we kill all the lawyers.' "

  "General O'Neal is being held at the Lunar Fleet Base," Cally said. "Multiple layers of security and of course it's on the Moon."

  Cally's team had taken a real hit with the loss of her grandfather, Michael O'Neal, Sr. The hole was impossible to fill mentally so they'd never filled it physically. That left Cally, Tommy and the Schmidt brothers. That was going to be more than enough. In fact, since direct action was, to say the least, not Harrison's forte, he'd be hanging back on this one.

  "This is going to be interesting," George Schmidt said. The newest team member had never been averse to attacking Cally's plans but his point was always to find the weaknesses, not attack the source. "As in 'you're fricking kidding, right?' They've seriously upgraded security procedures since we sprung you. And this time we don't have a guy on the inside."

  "Which is why we're not going to get him out during the trial," Cally said, bringing up another schematic. "He's either going to be convicted or he's not. If he's not, we pick him up from the exit and then get lost, fast. Given that it's a kangaroo court, he's going to be convicted. Which means that he'll be moved to the Lunar Penal facility."

  "We grab him in transit?" Tommy said, blinking. "What if they off him immediately?"

  "Then we're fucked," Cally admitted. "But he's going to be moved through the Deeprun Tram. That's the weak point."

  "A tram that runs through solid rock a thousand feet below the lunar surface?" George said. "How's that a weak point?"

  "It's one with the right support," Cally said. "Which we have. The Sohon are willing to give us that much support."

  "Okay," Tommy said, nodding. "I kinda get that one. So that's getting in and grabbing him. Getting out?"

  "I have a friend arranging that," Cally said.

  * * *

  It's Dad, Stewart. Your father-in-law. Your old boss. Don't tell me you're not in.

  I know that, honey. James Stewart, now known as Yan Kato, looked nothing like the man who had once been a Fleet Strike lieutenant general. He also didn't look purely Chinese, more like one of the more "mixed" races of southeast Asia that were survivors of the Posleen but not pure Han.

  And it will fuck with the Darhel, Cally added. The Tongs always like that. That's why we get along.

  I know that, too, Stewart had said. It doesn't mean it's a good idea. Look, I've gotten promoted in the Tong really fast. That makes enemies. And these guys don't just talk about you behind your back. There's more real assassination than character assassination in the Tongs. Doing something like this, with no profit involved, for apparently political and personal reasons, it's not a good idea. Not if you want me alive to visit on occasion.

  I want more than that and you know it. And if you need to get paid to do it, then we'll figure out a way to pay you.

  It's not going to be cheap.

  I don't think Michelle threw all those Level Nine nanokeys into the pot.

  In that case, let's talk business.

  First.

  First.

  "So, we're depending on Sohon, whom we don't know, and some Tong guy we don't know," Tommy said, blowing out his cheeks. He wasn't about to admit that he not only knew Stewart but that they had been acquaintances "back when." "Cally, you're asking us to take one hell of a risk using assets we don't know."

  "If you've got a better plan, Thomas, ante up," Cally said.

  "Point."

  He'd been through three "counsellors" so far. He waited in the trial room in anticipation. The "counsellor" hadn't been waiting for him this time. He wondered who they'd sacri
fice next.

  He was only slightly surprised when a Darhel came through the door.

  "Since I am privy to the information you've been giving to your other counsellors, telling me about it won't require my removal from the trial," the Darhel said, sitting down opposite Mike.

  "Oh, that's okay," Mike said. "I'll figure something out. Answer one question?"

  "We shall trade," the Darhel said. "I will ask one and you ask one. If you answer me I'll answer you."

  "Nope," Mike said, shaking his head. "I'm fully aware of how far you can trust a Darhel. Which is zero. You answer me and I'll answer you, though. I mean, really, who would you trust more, General Michael O'Neal or another Darhel?"