The other captains’ white smocks and white berets showed where the gold crosses had been removed from them. The two youngest of them greeted their colonel with scowls as if they wanted to continue the debate about wearing something that glinted so brightly in the sun . . . and made them such targets.
Promotion in the Lord’s Ever Victorious Host was as much by theological catechism as by military skills. As far as Colonel Cortez was concerned, these first two had memorized far too much catechism and not spent nearly enough time in the field getting their white smocks dirty.
Cortez watched with more interest the advance of the third captain. Older, passed over twice, Colonel Cortez had insisted that he get to select at least one of the Host’s company commanders. He’d placed his bet on Captain Joshua Sawyer and given him Third Company. With luck, the man would soldier on with Cortez long after this little affair was a happy memory.
Then again, officers of the Ever Victorious were notoriously sentimental about their monthly formation in ranks on the parade field before the temple. If Captain Sawyer could not break that habit, he’d probably retire as a captain in forty years.
As the two Ever Victorious captains halted before the colonel, they saluted as smartly as any toy soldier.
“Drop those salutes,” Cortez exploded. The two captains paled as they hurriedly got their offending hands down. Captain Sawyer came to a halt, no sign that he had intended to salute. Then again, his timing might just have been lucky.
“Are you trying to get me killed?” Cortez growled in a harsh whisper. If possible, the younger captain turned even whiter, and his brace stiffened to board straight.
The other officer didn’t let any starch out of his brace, but his face did show, if for only a moment’s flash, an unhealthy curiosity about Cortez’s future. Cortez moved fluidly to stand nose to nose with that officer. He pointed to the swamp ahead. “Out there is perfect ambush ground. You see it?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” said both captains, the older leading the younger by half a beat. Captain Sawyer blinked as he studied the ground. He nodded ever so slightly.
“There are snipers looking us over even as we talk. Snipers who can put a bullet in your brain from eight hundred meters. Who do you think those snipers most want to brain?”
The two young captains stood speechless. Apparently, this was not part of their catechism.
“Officers,” Captain Sawyer observed dryly.
“You go ahead and listen to that man, you boys,” came in a soft cackle. A sergeant under arms was leading ten more hostages to the front of the line. One was a gray-haired old lady who seemed to know the basics of field craft. At least more basics than these two captains.
“You listen, and quit making such stupid fool mistakes,” she said as she passed them, her gray eyes looking for all the world like an exasperated DI, even with all the lines of age and wear.
Where are these locals from? Cortez asked himself, yet again. But he had a JO to educate and a rage to keep warm.
“Good God in heaven,” Cortez went on. The psalm singers had protested the use of that phrase, but Cortez’s Spanish-Catholic heritage found nothing blasphemous about one of the few simple declarative sentences that he and the psalm singers could agree on. Now he put a full storm behind it. “If I see another officer saluting or being saluted, the saluter will be shot. If not by some sniper, then likely by me. Do you understand?”
The rote lead-in got the rote answer from all three New Jerusalem officers. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“Good. Captain,” Cortez began, choosing the one who’d seemed far too interested in identifying Cortez for a sniper. “Quick march your company up to where the minesweeping detail is on the causeway. You are the vanguard. Advance your force, keeping watch for anything in the water beside the road or in the trees of this swamp. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!” the New Jerusalem officer said . . . and just managed to suppress a salute.
When he did nothing further, Cortez gave him a fish eye.
“Ah, yes, sir, ah, you want me to go do it now?” the captain stuttered in his excitement and confusion.
“If I wanted it tomorrow, I’d have told you tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. Yessir.” Again, he just barely avoided saluting Cortez before running off for his command.
“You think he’ll remember his orders, sir?” Zhukov asked.
“They were simple enough. And I’m sure a good XO will drop by to help him remember, is that not so?”
“Definitely, sir.”
“First and Third Companies will be the main force. Mount half your troops in the available trucks. Have them keep their rifles ready and their eyes peeled for anything in the water or along the swamp beside us. Understood.”
“Yes, sir,” came from both captains.
“Sawyer, your Third Company will advance first. I will keep my command rig with you.”
“Yes, sir. My troops will lay down their lives for the command tabernacle,” came out sounding catechism rote.
Cortez didn’t much care for the defeatist undertones, but he let it go with a wave of his hand. Certainly, he would find more important lessons to teach this man today.
“Captain Afonin, your company will be the rear guard. Keep well back. If there is an ambush out there, I don’t want us to make it easy for them to get all of us in it. If they spring an ambush on us, you spread out and take them on the flank. If we get past the ambush and they snap it on you, I will do the same.”
Captain Afonin eyed the two New Jerusalem company commanders, seemed to find little weight in the prospects of their coming to his rescue, but let the conclusion pass unstated and just nodded. “Stay spread out, eyes open, and rifles locked and cocked, sir. No problem.”
“Good, then let’s do it.”
The Guard officers turned to go about their duty, as did Captain Sawyer. The youngest captain seemed taken back. “Aren’t we going to end in prayer?” he stammered.
“God help the poor fool that tries to take a bite out of us,” Major Zhukov said. “That enough for you, ’cause it’s about all I got time for.” Eyes wide, the young captain hastened to catch up with Captain Sawyer.
His officers sent on their way to do his bidding, Cortez boarded his command rig. Settled comfortably, he studied the lay of the land ahead. After a full two minutes, he decided that the disorganized milling about outside did not meet with his satisfaction. He only had to shout once to get the first psalm-singing company dogs trotting out to reinforce the mine-clearance team.
Five minutes later, Sawyer’s company was ready to move out. The Fusilier corporal driving Cortez’s command vehicle slid it easily into the lead of that truck line.
Cortez pulled his helmet down over his eyes and prepared to receive whatever was coming his way.
24
Captain Jack Montoya, only recent to the Royal USMC, sat on a box, and stared into the cool darkness of the cave. The young boy of about ten who showed it to him first had proudly introduced it as his “fort.”
Before today, it had protected the kid from nothing worse than the noon sun . . . and his parents’ sudden list of midday chores. Its main advantage had been its closeness to a swimming hole. Until this morning, that the tunnel’s entrance was well hidden in the root ball of a broom tree had not been a concern.
It was now.
Jack wondered why so much of Panda got dug. Then one of the young men who’d joined him spotted something at his feet and kicked it aside. A local mole or gopher or some such digging critter left such things behind when it dug. The local got kind of coy as to whether it was the sweat of the thing, or its vomit or poop or whatever. Still, if it came in contact with some bacteria in the soil, what came of it all was an ugly, smelly black wad that pharmaceutical companies and perfumeries paid good money for. It financed a major chunk of this colony.
That money source, coupled with the local’s laid-back way of farming, was a main reason why folks didn’t mind if their kids spent a lot o
f free time digging. And Jack had to agree; he’d never met a boy who didn’t like messing around in dirt.
Jack stared into the darkness to better see the picture being painted on his eyeball. A tiny nano buzzed on the far side of the swamp, its picture relayed by a series of tight-beams that had, at least until now, apparently passed unnoticed by the armed mob halted at the south end of the causeway.
There was no question that Princess Kris of Wardhaven had many failings, but once again, her inveterate addiction to fancy gadgets was coming in handy. Certainly, it was giving Jack a leg up on whoever it was over there. The hostiles looked to be reduced to the Mark I eyeball and Mark I, mod 0 ear.
Unfortunately, they appeared to be connected to a quite canny version 1.0 human brain. Colonel Cortez had smelled the ambush . . . and called a stop to his advance.
Still, he hadn’t done anything, such as lobbing a rocket at Marine sniper nests, mortaring Jack’s local reserves, or otherwise reacting to Jack’s deployment. Apparently neither Cortez’s eyeballs nor Thorpe’s overhead sensors had given away Jack’s defensive array. Cortez could smell the danger in this place but couldn’t put his finger on any specific targets.
And, fortunately for Jack and his troops, Cortez did not appear to have a whole lot of spare ammunition to use blasting away at anyplace that looked like a good target.
Not for the first time, Jack said a silent prayer to whoever sent these folks out to grab what they thought was easy prey. Not that what Jack had seen of the locals gave him any impression that, absent outside help, they would have gone happily along with whatever these Cortez and Thorpe guys were selling.
The farmers and craftsmen Jack had met since landing liked the hand they’d dealt themselves and had been doing a fair job of organizing matters to put things back the way they liked. A few were none too happy to have helpful Marines drop out of the sky.
Jack remembered where he’d parked the landers and intended to march right back onto them just as quickly as he could.
He hoped Kris did not have other plans. Having been thrown, run, or ushered off of a half dozen planets in the last couple of years, she should be used to the idea of helping folks out, then getting out of their way . . . very, very quickly.
Oops, matters are finally getting organized over there.
Jack hadn’t really needed those two idiots saluting what had to be the lead officer. The guy hung around the only rig painted green and with enough cubic volume to be a command vehicle. If that wasn’t Cortez, it was his evil twin.
Jack had seriously considered changing the battle plan when he concluded he had a solid ID on Colonel Cortez. Still, Kris had been against turning this into a bloodbath if it could be avoided. Jack held to Kris’s plan. Colonel Cortez would live to see this evening’s sunset. If he didn’t fall and break his neck.
Now everyone was running, jogging, or trotting. Jack held his breath and waited to see if Cortez had stayed within the decision box Kris’s command group was betting on.
One company-size force moved onto the causeway at double time. They halted where the crude effort at mine clearing had come to an end. More local hostages were pushed ahead of them. Yep, mine clearing would be done the old-fashioned way, human foot by human foot. Gunny had warned about that possibility. So much for the old rules of civilized war.
Jack reached into his jacket pocket and removed the little box with the bright red button. At present, it was safely protected by a plastic cover. Jack left the cover on. It looked to be about an hour before he would need it.
Now trucks started moving. The white berets rode or walked alongside the rigs, eyes and rifles focused mainly on the water beside the road. Some studied the trees. There were no shouts of discovery, only quiet broken by the yells of NCOs snapping at troopers who weren’t sufficiently attentive.
Jack ignored the troops and eyed the civilian trucks loaded with machine guns and troopers. He saw a dozen different makes or models. No three looked alike. Maintenance would be a bear for that collection of clattering spare parts. And spare parts were what they would need in about half an hour.
Waiting for nearly fifteen minutes before pulling up the rear were a dozen trucks of uniformly green and thoroughly military demeanor. Jack zoomed in. These troops were fully armored and loaded for bear. If Jack’s command of Marines and a whole lot of eager civilians had to shoot it out with that company of hard cases, matters would get ugly in a hurry.
Jack measured the distance from hunched-over hostages in the vanguard to the last green rig only just pulling onto the causeway. About a klick.
Jack was glad nothing in Kris’s plan involved his force trying to swallow that bunch down whole. Cortez knew he was going into country that just begged for an ambush. He was offering anyone stupid enough to take a swing at him what would look to any amateur like such a perfect chance.
Jack’s Marines had intercepted two groups of such eager, untrained locals. Half a squad of his Marines were tied down keeping dozens of them quiet not a klick from Jack’s “fort.”
On the causeway, the hostages crossed the midpoint of the swamp. They looked beat. The sun was now past noon. The humidity, heat, and bugs looked to have about done them in.
Jack watched as the white berets crossed the midpoint. Then he flipped the cover off his red button and pushed it.
25
“I’m getting radio static,” the tech in the backseat of Colonel Cortez’s rig shouted.
Cortez jumped to his feet, holding on to the truck’s windshield to steady himself as the driver slammed on the brakes.
“Don’t stop, man. Floor it,” Cortez shouted. He was leading Third Company, so he’d have the hundred meters between its nose and Second Company’s tail to maneuver in.
Tires spun, the truck lurched ahead for a second, but then Cortez waved to the driver and shouted, “Halt.”
The reason for the static was clearly visible up ahead.
There’d been a popping noise, not even as loud as sleepy darts on lowest power. Small clots of dirty white smoke now drifted on the light wind. And about half of Second Company was struggling in the throes of a tangle net.
The sticky-covered web had a life of its own. Even as Cortez shouted, “Get away from that stuff,” a couple of white berets tried to help their trapped comrades-in-prayer. They didn’t have a prayer, but were immediately sucked into the trap.
Cortez leapt from his rig, whipping out his automatic. “Get back, you idiots. The next man that gets tangled in that mess I will personally shoot. Get back, damn it.”
Whether it was the waving gun . . . or the foul language . . . or the look on Cortez’s face, the psalm singers backed away from their entangled buddies.
Cortez mashed his commlink. “Zhukov, please tell me your engineers have a few spray cans of Goo-Off.”
“Why should we do that, sir?” the major said in the calm, calculating voice of the financial backers . . . and proceeded to quote them word for word. “In a mere six hours, that stuff will harden and fall off. Besides, we’re not taking any. Why would you need to protect against it?”
Cortez didn’t know whom he wanted to shoot most. Zhukov for reminding him how much they’d let a bunch of spineless civilians call the shots for them . . . or the spineless civilians.
He turned away from the writhing mass that would be Second Company for the next six hours and let his eyes rove the swamp. He detested the thought of spending the rest of the day standing on the causeway, a bleating target for anything out there.
And a shot rang out.
Not the usual, high-pitched scream of a military-issue M-6 dart. No, this shot had the deep-throated, windy roar of a major-caliber round. Maybe forty or fifty calibers on the old scale. You could follow its passage as it pushed the air aside and the hole collapsed behind it.
It would fly straight for quite a while. But it was slow.
Cortez collapsed at the knees. He just might be able to fall far enough for it to miss him.
The
colonel was just landing on the grassy roadway when he realized he wasn’t the target. Behind him came the sharp gnashing of metal on metal, punctuated by an explosion of steam. The colonel rolled over on his belly. The air sighed out of him as he surveyed the destruction of that round.
The steel louvers that guarded his rig’s radiator were opened hardly more than twenty millimeters. The round that had swooped by his head must have been at least 10mm, possibly more. Some sharpshooter had aimed it between the louvers and hit his target. Once past the armor, the round had sliced through his radiator, bounced off the engine block . . . and taken another bite out of the radiator on its way to find a louver to bounce off of, and then ripped another hole. Colonel Cortez’s command rig was not going anywhere until its radiator was switched out.
To his right, left, more deep-throated rounds filled the air, and other rigs down the line exploded in steam that sent troopers fleeing lest it touched them with its hot breath.
The colonel shot to his feet. “Get in front of those radiators, you idiots. Get your worthless bodies in front of the rigs. They won’t dare shoot you.”
The men in the trucks looked at each other, as if they might find a translation of Cortez’s strange orders in their mates’ eyes. Some of the men walking beside the trucks started to move in obedience to the colonel’s orders, but it hardly seemed to matter. In ones and twos, fours and fives, hardly seconds apart, the front ends of the trucks exploded in hissing, steaming mists.
Angry and frustrated, Cortez let himself blow up at the uselessness of his patched-together command. He threw down his automatic, grabbed the nearest quaking private, and shoved him down the line. “Go find a working radiator and put your empty head in front of it.”
Colonel Cortez struggled to recover his temper. He did stoop to pick up his weapon. A high-pitched round of an M-6 rang out, followed by a fusillade.
“No, no, no,” Cortez growled as he stood up. “You don’t shoot the heart out of my motor transport so carefully that I don’t have an excuse to execute one damn hostage, then start killing my boys. You can’t be that stupid after being that brilliant,” he said as he looked around.
Kris Longknife: Intrepid Page 17
