Sturgeon’s plan was brilliant, but still, Spears was worried. An old veteran himself, Spears knew the best of plans could easily go awry. The brigadier had asked for massive reinforcements, but the situation was now so critical he could not wait for them, and besides, no response had yet been received from Fargo—nor would one come for a long time. Sturgeon’s message to Corps headquarters had been blunt, but he did not know what effect it might have had on the staff back there. “General Aguinaldo will take it seriously, Jay,” Sturgeon had said, “but I don’t know if he can sell the commandant, and if he does, whether he’ll be able to take it further up the chain of command. Anyway, I did what I could. Now it’s up to him to do what he can, and it’s up to me to make the best of the situation on the ground right here.”
“God helps those who help themselves,” Spears muttered, then smiled. “Always thought that expression a rationalization for the fact that God helps no one.”
Sturgeon laughed. “As luck would have it, Providence was with us.”
Now back in his office, Spears considered the day’s events. Would the plan work? The worst-case scenario was that it wouldn’t and the Skinks would overrun them. Spears did not think that would ever happen with Ted Sturgeon in charge, but he had an obligation as a diplomat to let his own superiors know the situation. If Kingdom went under, the rest of the Confederation must be warned. Jon Beerdmens, chief of the Confederation Diplomatic Corps, was Spears’s direct superior, and Spears was obligated by the rules of diplomatic service protocol to address his comments to Beerdmens. But Beerdmens was an idiot! And worse, Spears knew everyone in the Diplomatic Corps considered him to be a superannuated fool given to breaking the rules and acting outrageously. Beerdmens would never pay serious attention to anything he sent him.
Well, I’m not gonna tell him anything about Sturgeon’s battle plan, Spears thought, but I’ll give the fat bastard both barrels, tell him if he doesn’t go to the President it’ll be his ass hung out to dry. A beautiful white ash had accumulated on the end of his cigar. He knocked it off and drew deeply on the Anniversario again, the tip glowing a satisfyingly bright orange. He winced. Damn! Thinking about Beerdmens was distracting him from the enjoyment of his cigar. Yes, he’d send the message, but he’d do something else too. The President had appointed him to the job, and although that was merely pro forma, she was the boss and he owed her a warning. He’d send her a separate communication, put fatso on report, because Spears knew that Beerdmens would never go to her based on anything he sent Beerdmens. That way, at least somebody with a brain would be on the case.
“Besides,” Spears muttered aloud, “what the hell are they going to do to me? Send me to the Kingdom of Yahweh and His Saints and Their goddamn Apostles?”
Spears sent the message to Beerdmens and then waited a full forty-eight hours before he dispatched the private message to Madam Chang-Sturdevant.
Jon Beerdmens groaned with pleasure and daintily wiped his chin with a napkin. He raised the spoon again and slurped the glutinous concoction with a pleasure as vast as his bulk. All men have their vices, and Jon Beerdmens, Diplomatic Corps chief, had his: eating.
He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, savoring the rich flavor of the soup, crême of Greece, his favorite. When he was in town, which had become almost always, the cafeteria kept a vat of the stuff on the stove so that if he called for some, there’d be plenty of it, piping hot, just the way he liked it. These days he took his soup heavily seasoned with kymchiss, a condiment made from a fiercely aromatic garliclike herb cultivated on Soju. He’d only learned of kymchiss a few months ago when he was introduced to it at a diplomatic function. The stuff fouled the breath and burned like fire when evacuated from the system, but God, did it spice up the soup!
Beerdmens regarded the bowl: only half empty, or rather, half full. He chuckled. Beerdmens fancied himself an optimist. He resisted the strong urge to continue eating and dispose of the soup quickly so he could order another bowl. There was work to be done. Besides, as he read the important dispatch on his screen, he could make the soup last another ten minutes.
“Excellency,” the message began, “I regret to inform you that the news from Kingdom is very bad.”
The security classification on the message was Cosmic, the highest degree used in the Diplomatic Corps. During the time he’d been chief, Beerdmens had received only one other such message, and that was to report the abduction of his Ambassador Plenipotentiary, J. Wellington-Humphreys, by the usurper, Marston St. Cyr, on Diamunde. Only Beerdmens and his deputy and heir apparent, who just happened to be J. Wellington-Humphreys, were cleared for Cosmic.
Beerdmens sighed and read on.
IN SHORT, WHAT WE ORIGINALLY THOUGHT WAS ANOTHER OF THE FREQUENT INTERNECINE CONFLICTS AMONG THE VARIOUS RELIGIOUS FACTIONS ON THIS WORLD IS IN FACT A FULL-SCALE INVASION OF THE PLANET BY AN ALIEN FORCE KNOWN COLLOQUIALLY AS “SKINKS.” I HAVE LEARNED THAT THESE SAME BEINGS WERE RESPONSIBLE FOR WIPING OUT A SCIENTIFIC EXPLORATORY COLONY ON A WORLD KNOWN AS SOCIETY 437. I HAVE ALSO LEARNED THAT SOME OF THE MARINES CURRENTLY HERE ON KINGDOM ENCOUNTERED THESE BEINGS ON SOCIETY 437 AND WIPED THEM OUT. I UNDERSTAND THIS IS PRIVILEGED INFORMATION. I CANNOT REVEAL MY SOURCE, BUT IT IS TRUE.
Skinks, so that’s what they’re calling them, Beerdmens thought. He read on, his soup momentarily forgotten:
THE MILITARY SITUATION HERE IS CRITICAL. DESPITE THE PRESENCE OF TWO FULL COMPLEMENTS OF FLEET INITIAL STRIKE TEAMS, ONE OF WHICH IS THE 34TH—WHICH YOU WILL REMEMBER FROM THE INCIDENT ON WANDERJAHR—THE SKINKS HAVE MANAGED TO FORCE THEM BACK UPON THE CAPITAL CITY, WHICH THEY HAVE NOW COMPLETELY INVESTED. THE LOCAL FORCES HAVE TAKEN HEAVY CASUALTIES, AND THE MARINES HAVE SUFFERED GRIEVOUS LOSSES AS WELL. DESPITE VERY HEAVY LOSSES OF THEIR OWN, THE SKINK FORCES DO NOT APPEAR IN THE LEAST DIMINISHED. THE LOCAL CONFEDERATION COMMANDER, BRIGADIER THEODOSIUS STURGEON, A VERY CAPABLE PROFESSIONAL SOLDIER, IS CONFIDENT HE CAN BREAK THE SIEGE, BUT I FEAR THAT TIME IS NOT ON OUR SIDE. THE MORALE OF THE LOCAL POPULATION IS VERY LOW.
There followed a detailed summary of the military setbacks. “In conclusion, Excellency,” Spears wrote, “I beg you to inform the President at once. I do not know if we can survive here, but I believe what we are experiencing is merely the opening battle of a full-scale attack these beings intend to launch on the human race. The member worlds of our Confederation must be alerted and we must bring all of our military strength to bear in a concerted effort to wipe out these Skinks and eliminate them as a threat to our existence. I must warn you: if my assumptions prove correct and action is not taken immediately, the repercussions are unthinkable.”
“He’s warning me?” Beerdmens exclaimed aloud. “He’s warning me?” His chins jiggled with indignation. He pounded a hamlike fist on the desk. “Of all the impertinence! That dried-up, useless old fool! I swear, those goddamn Marines have done it again! Fucking jarheads! Fucking—Fucking—glorified bellhops!” he spluttered. He knew what had happened on Society 437. Some semisentient salamanders had risen up against the scientific colony. And now this fool was insisting they were a threat to the human race? Just like the Marines, exaggerating things to make themselves look good, only this time they’d gotten the ear of an ambassador. Spears was a gullible idiot whose brain had gone soft on Marines after the scuffle on Wanderjahr. “Unbelievable,” Beerdmens muttered.
He considered sending the dispatch to Wellington-Humphreys, but decided against it. She’d also developed a fondness for the spacegoing bellhops after what had happened to her on Diamunde. He tapped some keys on his console and relegated the message to his private recycle bin. It was best he keep it to himself for the time being. Just think of the panic if that idiot’s assumptions were to be made public!
Jon Beerdmens shook his head and lifted the spoon to his lips. Ugh! The soup had gone cold! Additional proof this Spears character was a goddamn jinx.
He ordered a fresh bowl from the cafeteria.
Cynthia Chang-Sturdevant’s weakness was ice cream—old-fashioned, f
attening, and sinful ice cream. She indulged herself as often as she could, her calendar and waistline permitting. The wonderful dish of delectable Jaskin-Hoggins Hanguk vanilla deluxe she’d just ordered from her servomech was going down very smoothly when her console bleeped that a classified high-priority message was waiting for her. She glanced briefly at the heading. It was Cosmic, and from an ambassador on—Martin H. Luther’s proboscis!—Kingdom of Yahweh and His Saints and Their Apostles! She dropped her spoon.
For the next ten minutes Chang-Sturdevant read Spears’s assessment, a growing sense of dark despair welling up inside her. “Madam President, on 12/26 Standard I sent this message to his Excellency Beerdmens at the Diplomatic Corps,” Spears had concluded. “He does not know I am communicating my assessment directly to you, but I consider it my duty to do so now.” She looked at the heading again. The message was dated 12/28 Standard. That meant Beerdmens had had the thing for forty-eight hours and no one over there had bothered to contact her yet? Of course, the Diplomatic Corps was not aware of the measures she had already taken to deal with the crisis. Telling them would be tantamount to issuing a press release. Evidently, word of General Aguinaldo’s appointment hadn’t reached Sturgeon yet. She wondered briefly what this brigadier had in mind to break the siege. No matter; they’d all find out soon enough.
“Give me Beerdmens’s schedule,” she asked her console. It popped onto the screen. “The fat bastard’s been in town all week,” she muttered. So there was no excuse for him not having informed her of his ambassador’s concerns. “Okay, send this message to Jon Beerdmens, Chief of the Confederation Diplomatic Corps: ‘Jon, get your ass . . .’ No, ‘Jon, I want you and J. Wellington-Humphreys in my office immediately.’ Accentuate ‘immediately.’ ” The message flashed simultaneously on her screen. “Okay, cc my chief-of-staff, add a note to cancel all my appointments for this afternoon, and send it.”
She made a face. Those guys are right, she reflected, we are being invaded. Well, Diplomatic’ll be here in a few minutes—they’d damn well better be here in a few minutes!—and J. Beerdmens will hike his blubber into retirement. She remembered Wellington-Humphreys well. She’d been through that awful ordeal on Diamunde, from which two enlisted Marines had rescued her. In fact they had been two of Sturgeon’s own men! She’d make a good chief of the Diplomatic Corps.
The President of the Confederation of Worlds reached for her dish of ice cream. It had melted into a pool of white slop. “Beerdmens,” she laughed out loud, “I’m gonna get you for this!”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Marine Expeditionary Forces, Kingdom, wasn’t idle during the time the xenobiolgists, scientists, and techs were examining the objects taken from the Skink supply depot. Somewhere in a remote hold of the CNSS Grandar Bay was a supply of equipment that had been superceded by the UPUD—motion detectors and aroma sniffers. Brigadier Sturgeon ordered them issued, two motion detectors and one sniffer to each blaster squad in the two FISTs, and the Marines spent many hours in refresher training in their use. The training was necessary, as few of the Marines had ever used motion detectors with earpieces. Sturgeon insisted on the earpieces—he didn’t want to risk losing a man because the Marine was distracted by looking at a visual display on a handheld object.
On the third day, the Marines of 34th FIST took the fight to the Skinks. Blaster platoons, reinforced with two assault squads and an extra communications man, went into the swamps and marshes of the Skink stronghold.
Third platoon, Company L, moved in squad columns on line: first squad on the left; second squad, with Lance Corporal Schultz on point, on the right; the platoon’s gun squad in the middle with the command element, where it could reinforce either flank that needed it. The two assault squads that reinforced the platoon, under the command of section leader Sergeant N’ton—a new man with the company—were inboard from the blaster squads, where they could fire to the front, rear, or over the blastermen on their flanks. The platoon also had an extra communications man who constantly monitored an all-hands radio. The platoon’s objective was a densely wooded section of marsh to the northeast that was known to contain several cave mouths, some of which were submerged.
Third platoon had experience with submerged entrances to Skink caves. They’d found one on Society 437, entered it, and fought the Skinks inside the tunnel complex that it led to. The Skinks had fought to the death.
Flying animals, native avians, and game birds whose ancestors had been imported from Earth swooped from tree to tree, shrub to bush, cried out their territorial and mating songs. Escaped domestic ducks and geese dipped their heads into the shallow places to scoop food from the bottom. Smaller fliers buzzed and flitted about the ambulatory smorgasbord that moved through their territory, frustrated that they couldn’t feast on it—earlier generations of their kind had learned how unpalatable the smorgasbord was, and the knowledge was passed down and spread. Fishy things and water-phase amphibioids scattered in flight from the unknown things that quietly trod their waters. Land-walking swamp dwellers sensed death coming their way and headed for distant parts. The scent of rotten vegetation wafted on the light breezes that moved over the sun-dappled water.
Ten kilometers into the wetlands, Lieutenant Rokmonov called a halt. He spoke into the all-hands circuit.
“We’re less than half a klick from the nearest known entrances to the cave system. Squad leaders, show the maps.” He paused a moment while the squad leaders transmitted their maps to the HUD displays in each Marine’s helmet. The display was real-time, updated by the string-of-pearls. It showed the Marines as red dots in the lower left corner. The irregularly shaped black spots in the upper right quadrant that faded to spreading gray lines and blotches were known entrances and the caves they led to. Submerged cave mouths were circled in bright blue. The men of third platoon had studied the map before they left the perimeter, but Rokmonov thought it was always a good idea to refresh the Marines’ memory of the objective just before they reached it.
“We’re going to be methodical about this,” he continued. “This is the order in which we’ll check out those entrances.” He transmitted an overlay that numbered the black irregularities. “We have to assume the cave mouths are guarded. They probably have observation posts out, so squad leaders, make sure everyone with a motion detector or sniffer has it on and it’s working.” He paused again to give the squad leaders time to check the motion detectors and aroma sniffers. When they reported that the equipment was operating properly, he finished, “We will maintain formation until we are a hundred meters from the first cave mouth or until contact. Then we will move online. Move out.”
Lance Corporal Schultz rejected the relatively minor distraction of a motion detector’s earpiece, as everyone knew he would. He trusted his own eyes and ears more than any piece of equipment. Corporal Kerr didn’t quite trust Corporal Doyle to use it properly, since he knew Doyle was too frightened, so he reluctantly tucked it inside his own shirt and ran the earpiece into his helmet.
Corporal Chan didn’t think a sniffer attuned to a particular fish would be of much use in a marsh whose water teemed with fish, so he had no qualms about giving the sniffer to PFC Fisher, his least experienced man. And he got a minor kick from the irony of giving the fish-scent sniffer to a man named Fisher.
Corporal Claypoole had never had the chance to use a motion detector on a live operation, and he really wanted to use it himself. But he had extra responsibilities as fire team leader, so he gave it to MacIlargie, who eagerly plugged it in.
On the other flank, Corporal Dornhofer gave his fire team’s motion detector to Lance Corporal Zumwald. He wanted to closely observe the less experienced of his two new men, PFC Gray. Corporal Pasquin had PFC Longfellow carry the sniffer; he felt a need to keep close watch on his new man, PFC Shoup. Corporal Dean was the most comfortable with the man he gave the motion detector to—Lance Corporal Godenov. Yes, Izzy was good enough; he knew that.
The marsh’s water was surpris
ingly clear, and it flowed fast enough that little of the rotting vegetation in it had time to settle and completely decompose. About half of the marsh’s surface was tussocks and hummocks that rose slightly above mean water level. Grasses grew on them, and reedlike grasses were thick around their edges. Saplings and midsize trees grew on the larger ones. A few trees with buttress roots didn’t need the tussocks to stand on. Sight lines in the marsh seldom reached fifty meters. The water’s depth ranged mostly from ankle to top-of-thigh. Occasional waterlogged logs and branches littered the bottom of the waterways, and here and there an unseen hole lay in wait to swallow a careless wader. So the Marines trod carefully, sliding their feet along the bottom muck, probing for things that could trip them, holes they could plunge into. The water clouded as they moved. Most of them were experienced and skilled enough that they moved carefully with little or no conscious thought. Those with less experience or skill paid extra attention to where their feet were going. So none of them fell for the three hundred meters that the motion detectors and sniffers were silent.
Schultz lowered himself to a squat in knee-deep water at the same time that Kerr and Godenov reported, “I have movement” and Fisher murmured, “The sniffer’s got something.” Something splashed out of sight to the platoon’s right front.
The Fighters not guarding the entrances to the cave complex or searching for additional entrances were on observation patrol, screening cave entrances throughout the Skink area—all but a few who were sent to harass the Haven defenses. They had been patrolling without relief since late on the day of the raid on the supply depot. The Fighters on patrol didn’t walk erect where a sharp-eyed Earthman might spot them; they half crawled, half swam, in the refreshing marsh waters, with only the upper halves of their heads above the surface. Their lungs were collapsed and they breathed through their gills. Leaders supervised the patrolling Fighters. The Masters paid scant attention to the patrolling Leaders and Fighters. They were too concerned with satisfying the Senior Masters, who were intent on obeying the Over Masters in their determination to satisfy the Great Master’s command to locate any and all unknown entrances to the cave complex.
Starfist: Kingdom's Fury Page 18
