Having found nothing of interest inside the dome, the legionnaires made their way toward the small blocky building that served as the entry point to the mine below. The terrain, not to mention piles of rusty pipe and pieces of old mining equipment, conspired to funnel the squad through a narrow passageway. Was that a matter of chance, Santana wondered? Or the result of careful planning? “Take it slow,” the cavalry offi?cer cautioned. “And keep your eyes peeled for booby traps.”
That was good advice, as soon became apparent, when Staff Sergeant Carol Yanty spotted two pieces of pipe that stuck up out of the ground like gateposts and motioned for those behind her to stop. What caught her attention was the fact that anyone who wanted to approach the main lock would have to pass between the head-high pylons. The NCO
dropped to the ground, made her way over to a pile of scrap, and selected a small piece of sheet metal. Harsh sunlight glinted off the object as it sailed between the pipes. Lieutenant Zolkin, who had been somewhat skeptical until then, watched in slack-jawed astonishment as a bolt of bright blue electricity jumped from one pole to the other and punched a hole through the scrap of sheet metal as it did so. Then, having completed its task, the system returned to standby. The platoon leader couldn’t hear the sizzle from inside his suit, but there was nothing wrong with his imagination, so he could easily visualize what would have occurred had he been allowed to lead the rest of the squad through the narrow passageway. Would his armor have been suffi?cient to protect him from such a device? Maybe, Zolkin concluded, and maybe not.
The electrifi?ed posts were quickly slagged by the T-2s, thus allowing the entire team to pass unharmed. “Okay,”
Santana said over the squad-level com channel. “That confi?rms what we already knew. . . . The bugs are in residence, so stay sharp.”
And they were sharp, or as sharp as they could be, but some traps are diffi?cult to detect. As the legionnaires learned when Private Mak Matal put his full weight on a sand-swept pressure plate and triggered a carefully shaped charge. The explosion blew both the T-2 and his rider into a thousand fragments. They soared upwards until gravity took over and began to pull them back down. The bloody confetti had a tendency to bond with anything that it came in contact with. Including the legionnaires themselves. The disaster was so unexpected that even Santana was shocked, especially since he, Zolkin, Yanty, and their T-2s had safely crossed the very same spot only moments before. Killing the fourth person, or in this case persons to pass over the mine was a tactic intended to infl?ict casualties, sow the seeds of doubt, and terrorize those who survived. That was bad enough, but having lost one-third of Yanty’s squad, Santana was even more concerned about the unit’s ability to defend itself as the survivors came together in front of the main lock. “Check the hatch for booby traps,” Santana ordered tersely. “And, if it comes up clean, blow it.”
Zolkin felt as if he should be giving orders, or helping somehow, but found that it was diffi?cult to see. So he reached up to wipe the muck off his face shield, realized what the bloody sludge was, and threw up in his helmet. The vomit ran down the offi?cer’s chin, found its way past his neck seal, and dribbled into his suit. The stench was sickening, and Zolkin felt an intense sense of shame, as his stomach heaved yet again.
“Get away from the hatch,” Santana ordered, as Yanty slapped a charge against the metal door and stepped to one side. All of the soldiers took cover as Yanty fl?ipped a safety switch and thumbed the remote. There was a fl?ash of light as the charge went off, followed by a cloud of dust, as air was expelled and an equivalent amount of Oron IV’s atmosphere rushed in to replace it. That was Private Oneeye Knifeplay’s cue to fi?re six grenades into the black hole in an effort to kill any chits that were waiting within. Santana couldn’t hear the explosions, but he could see flashes as the grenades went off, and sent pieces of razor-sharp shrapnel fl?ying in every direction. And even though the wait was only a few seconds long, there was still enough time to feel the fear seep into his belly. Matal and Bisby died the fi?rst time they went into combat, the soldier told himself. But even though you’ve been in combat dozens of times, you’re still alive. Why is that? And how many more doors can you walk through before your luck runs out?
There was no answer, just as Santana knew there wouldn’t be, and for some reason it was an image of Christine Vanderveen’s face that the cavalry offi?cer saw as he entered the swirling smoke. It might have been Camerone, in 1863, or Dien Bien Phu in 1953, or any of a thousand actions since, as the company commander waved his legionnaires forward.
“What the hell are you waiting for?” Sergeant Yanty wanted to know, as the remainder of her squad stood frozen in place. “A frigging invitation? Let’s kill some bugs!”
Four bio bods and four T-2s entered the mine, and followed the gradually sloping shaft downwards, as their lights played across the rough-hewn rock walls. And that, according to File Leader Beeb Nohar’s way of thinking, was just fi?ne. It was a long way from the control cavern to the escape hatch located on the other side of the hills above, so Byap and the twelve troopers who accompanied him still had a ways to go, when they received word that the aliens had entered the mine. A price had been paid, however, a bloody price, and that gave the Ramanthian pleasure as he urged his soldiers forward. Blobs of light swung back and forth across rocky walls, and badly faded alien hieroglyphics could be seen here and there, as the Ramanthians shuffl?ed past a side gallery crammed fl?oor to ceiling with army rations. Finally, after fi?ve minutes of additional travel, the fi?le was forced to a stop in front of the emergency exit. Having checked to ensure that the lock’s surcam was operational, Byap took the time necessary to scan the external environment before proceeding any farther. Because once out in the open, the subcommander knew that his tiny force would be vulnerable to enemy cyborgs and the Confederacy’s aerospace fi?ghters. But the surcam revealed nothing other than a cloudless sky and the steep scree-covered slope that led to the iron-oxide-stained plain below.
Confi?dent that the immediate area was safe, Byap led his troopers into the lock and tapped a series of numbers into the human-style keypad. Sunlight splashed the lock’s interior and threw shadows against the back wall as the hatch cycled open. As Byap led the fi?le out onto the treacherous hillside, he knew speed was of the essence if he and his troops were to circle around and take the enemy by surprise. The Ramanthian knew that the ensuing battle would constitute little more than a gesture, but he wanted to die with honor. Such were Subcommander Byap’s thoughts as a .50-caliber bullet left the barrel of Private Mary Volin’s sniper rifl?e, sped through the air, and snatched a trooper off his feet. “That was a good one,” Dietrich commented, as he stood. The noncom’s face shield made the binos more diffi?cult to use, but the dappled body armor that the chits wore was easy to spot against the light gray scree.
Byap saw the trooper spin away, knew the bullet had originated from somewhere below, and spotted movement as a tiny fi?gure rose to look up at him. “There!” the offi?cer said, as he pointed at the alien below. “Kill him!”
And the Ramanthian troopers tried, but the second squad was more than a thousand yards away, which put the legionnaires well beyond the effective range of the Ramanthian Negar assault weapons. That left Volin free to peer into the 10X scope, pick her next target, and send a second armorpiercing slug spinning upslope. Byap swore as another trooper went down. Then, knowing that he had no choice but retreat, the subcommander turned and began to scramble uphill. The movement brought the offi?cer to Dietrich’s attention. “See the bug who’s leading the rest of them uphill?” the noncom inquired conversationally.
“Kill him.”
And Volin tried. But a sudden breeze came in from the west and gave the speeding bullet a tiny nudge. Not much, but enough to knock the slug off course, and momentarily save Byap’s life. But the 706.7-grain projectile still took the subcommander’s left arm off, turned him around, and dumped him onto the scree. And it was then, while staring up into an alien sky, that Byap remembe
red the remote. Time seemed to slow as the Ramanthian fumbled for the object and fi?nally found it.
The suit had sealed itself by that time, cauterized the terrible wound that he had suffered, and was busy pumping drugs into the offi?cer’s circulatory system. That made it hard to think, but the offi?cer forced himself to focus, as he struggled to break the remote’s safety tab. A simple task given two pincers, but diffi?cult with only one, especially when the enemy was shooting at you. Finally, having made use of a neighboring rock to break the tab off, Byap gave the device a squeeze.
There was no response at fi?rst, or that was the way it seemed to the Ramanthian, as troopers continued to fall all around him. But then the earth shook, the entire air lock was blown out of the hillside, and the scree began to move. That was when Byap knew his efforts had been successful—
and that the gates of paradise would open before him. Having forced his way into the mine, Santana expected to encounter stiff resistance from the Ramanthians and was surprised when nothing of that sort occurred. There was something oppressive about the rock walls that closed in around the legionnaires as the throatlike passageway took them deeper underground. What little bit of comfort there was stemmed from the fact that while small, his force packed plenty of fi?repower. Occasional lights cast an ominous greenish glow over tool-ripped walls as the fl?oor sloped steadily downwards.
As the squad pushed deeper into the mine, and his T-2’s powerful headlamp pushed its way into various nooks and crannies, Santana was careful to record everything his suitcam “saw.” That included the Ramanthian-made vehicles that were parked in turnouts, “bug” script that had been spray-painted onto the walls, and occasional sorties into side caverns stuffed with supplies. All of which would be of interest to Intel. But all the while the company commander couldn’t escape the feeling that he and his companions were under surveillance as the T-2s monitored their sensors and their lights probed the murk ahead. But there was nothing to see until the trap closed around them. The mine was a maze of cross tunnels and vertical access shafts. So by hiding two levels above the main tunnel, and dropping spiderlike into the main passageway, the Ramanthians were able to land behind the legionnaires and thereby block their escape route. That was the plan anyway, and it would have been successful, had it not been for Lieutenant Zolkin. Having been assigned the drag position, and given strict orders to “. . . Watch our six,” the offi?cer’s T-2 had been forced to walk backwards much of the time.
Even so, if the offi?cer hadn’t been so clumsy as to drop a bag of grenades, which he was then forced to jump down and retrieve, Nohar might have been able to land his fi?le undetected. But such was not the case as Zolkin lifted the sack, saw a space-armored Ramanthian appear out of nowhere, and threw a grenade up corridor. All without pausing to think about it. The enemy trooper was blown to smithereens, and Zolkin was back on Tebo before the rest of the squad could respond. The sequence of actions earned the platoon leader a precious “well done” from Santana.
Thanks to the early warning, the legionnaires were able to fi?ght their way back toward the main lock even as a dozen heavily armed troopers fell on them, and the interior of the mine shaft was transformed into a hellish nightmare of strobing muzzle fl?ashes, exploding grenades, and wildly swinging lights. “Form on me!” Santana ordered. “Pull back toward the lock!”
Having only a small force of T-2s, and facing an unknown number of enemy troops, Santana knew he was in trouble. The decision to enter the mine had been a gamble, one he regretted, so it was time to salvage what he could. Once the ambush site was behind them, the offi?cer ordered the T-2s to turn and fi?re as a group, before making a run for the lock. And it was then, as the cyborgs began to pick up speed, that the ground started to shake. Clouds of dust and smoke were injected into the main tunnel even as slabs of rock fell from above and holes opened in the fl?oor. And that’s where Staff Sergeant Carol Yanty and her T-2 went, as a fi?ssure appeared in front of them, and Private Su Hopson stepped into the hole.
Santana, who had intentionally stationed himself at the tail end of the fl?eeing column, swore as the twosome disappeared and daylight appeared up ahead. “Run!” the offi?cer shouted, as a wall of smoke, dust, and fl?ying debris began to overtake the legionnaires from behind. “Run like hell!”
But the T-2s needed no urging, and were already moving as quickly as they could when the fi?nal charges went off, and a plug of poisonous air helped expel them from the mine. It was dark inside the dust cloud, but the cyborgs could “see”
with their sensors and were able to keep going until the smoke fi?nally cleared and it was possible to stop. Dekar turned to look back, which meant Santana did as well, not that there was much to see. A pile of rubble marked the spot where the entry lock had been. The dust cloud was starting to disperse and the hill off to the right had been scarred by a new landslide.
The essence of the mission, which was to confi?rm that the Ramanthians were present, and dislodge or kill them, had been achieved. But at what cost? Half the squad had been killed, and thousands of tons of potentially useful supplies were buried in the mine. All of which left Santana feeling more than a little depressed as he led his troops back toward the company’s temporary base. Stars started to twinkle as the sun set, darkness claimed the land, and the long bloody day came to an end.
ABOARD THE TROOP TRANSPORT CYNTHIA HARMON
More than one standard day had passed since the battle inside the mine, the loss of four legionnaires and thousands of tons of supplies. All of which weighed heavily on Santana as he made his way down the ship’s main corridor to the cabin assigned to Battalion Commander Liam Quinlan. Where he expected to get his ass royally chewed. Or, worse yet, face formal charges. Private Kay Kaimo had been assigned to stand guard outside Quinlan’s door. The legionnaire came to attention as her company commander approached and rendered a rifl?e salute with her CA-10. Santana responded with a salute of his own, rapped his knuckles on the knock block next to the hatch, and waited for a response. It came quickly.
“Enter!”
Santana took three paces forward, executed a smart right face, and took one additional step. That put him directly in front of the Battalion Commander as he came to attention. It was widely known that Quinlan was fi?fty-six years old, had been passed over for lieutenant colonel on two different occasions, and would have been forced into retirement had it not been for the war. As the Confederacy’s armed forces began to ramp up in order to deal with the Ramanthians, there was a desperate shortage of experienced offi?cers. That meant Quinlan, and others like him, were likely to be promoted. Santana’s eyes were focused on a point about six inches above the other man’s head, but he could still see quite a bit. The man in front of him had small, piggy eyes, prissy lips, and pendent jowls. His uniform was at least half a size too small for him and tight where a potbelly pushed against it. Quinlan nodded politely. “At ease, Captain. Have a seat.”
The invitation came as something of a surprise to Santana, who fully expected to receive his tongue-lashing in the vertical position, consistent with long-standing tradition. The navy had provided two guest chairs, both of which were bolted to the deck, and Santana chose the one on the right. The cabin was three times larger than the box assigned to him and was intended to serve Quinlan as offi?ce, conference room, and sleeping quarters all rolled into one. However, unlike most of the Legion’s senior offi?cers, who saw no reason to personalize a space soon to be left behind, Quinlan was known to travel with a trunkful of personal items calculated to make his tent, hab, or stateroom more comfortable. For that reason all manner of photos, plaques, and memorabilia were on display, items that would quickly be transformed into a galaxy of fl?oating trash were the Harmon’s argrav generators to drop off-line. But that wasn’t Santana’s problem, so the company commander kept his mouth shut as Quinlan selected an oldfashioned swagger stick from the items on the top of his desk and began to twirl it about. “So,” the major began. “I read your after-action report, and w
hile it was essentially correct, it was my opinion that you were excessively hard on yourself.”
Santana, who was still in the process of recovering from what he considered to be a fl?awed performance, was astounded. “If you say so, sir,” the cavalry offi?cer replied cautiously. “But I continue to feel that our casualties were too high—and I regret the loss of those supplies.”
“Nonsense,” Quinlan said dismissively. “The Navy will dig the supplies out in a matter of weeks. You did all anyone reasonably could. . . . That’s why I took the liberty of rewriting certain sections of your report, which I would like you to read and sign. Go ahead,” the senior offi?cer said invitingly, as he made use of the swagger stick to push the hard copy in Santana’s direction. “Take a look.”
Quinlan tapped his right cheek with the leather-clad stick as Santana skimmed the words in front of him. The essence of the situation quickly became clear. While ostensibly changing the report so as to benefi?t one of his subordinates, Quinlan was actually taking care of himself! Because he would remain as acting battalion commander until such time as his promotion to lieutenant colonel came through. And even though that was pretty much a done deal, it wouldn’t hurt to pump some positive fi?eld reports into BUPERS while he was waiting. Especially if the incoming data addressed the area where the major’s résumé was the thinnest. Which was actual combat.
While Santana knew Quinlan had never gone down to the planet’s surface, those who read the report would assume he had, and would give the portly offi?cer at least partial credit for what would appear to be a successful mission after Santana’s self-critical comments had been removed. When the cavalry offi?cer’s eyes came up off the last page, Quinlan’s were waiting for him. “So,” the major said mildly. “Unless you spotted a factual error of some sort, I would appreciate your signature.”
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