Murphy's Lawless: A Terran Republic Novel

by Charles E. Gannon

* * * * *

  Chapter Nineteen

  Spin One

  The news Murphy had been waiting for arrived as the deck in the outer docking bay opened up. The third tilt-thruster interface shuttle—even boxier than the ones Bowden was turning into attack craft—swiveled its engines and dropped through the opening into free space. As it did, the report scrolled across the top of his dataslate: “Captain Moorefield reports safe landing in AO. Currently surveying site recommended by Sarmatchani for FOB Stark. Second shuttle now entering high-angle polar descent, five-by-five. All systems nominal.”

  Murphy exhaled the breath he’d been holding for…well, it felt like two hours: the approximate time it had taken for Moorefield’s lead shuttle to go from atmospheric approach to landing. “Blazing a trail before I ask my guys to follow it,” the armor officer had explained when he’d insisted on taking point during the descent. It wasn’t really risky, and Murphy was glad he had cadre who were willing to lead from the front, but damn: if something happened to Moorefield or Tapper, the whole operation would be over before it started.

  Murphy tapped an acknowledgement just as the inner loading bay doors groaned open behind him.

  Yet another shuttle was wheeled in on a platform; it was off-white and looked like it either had a fresh paint job or was brand new. He stepped forward to get a better look—

  “Don’t do that, sir,” rumbled a voice behind him. Murphy started and turned.

  A bear of a man was two feet behind him, carrying an old-school M16. It looked like a toy in the meaty paws of his ostensible bodyguard, Maximilliano Messina. The sleepy-eyed fellow shook his head. “Another step back, sir.”

  Murphy smiled. “Max, I don’t think they’re going to run me over with a shuttle.” Although given his treatment by the SpinDogs to date, he wasn’t as sure of that as he’d have liked to be.

  But Max was still shaking his head. “Not what I’m worried about, sir.”

  “Then what—?”

  Before Murphy could finish his question, Max pointed with his eyes toward a doorway along the catwalk that provided access to the high, square gantry of the frame crane which moved small craft around the loading/staging bay. “Sir, anyone who opens that door has a clear line to you. And you’re standing in the way of my preemptive shot. So, it’s better if you stand a little forward or back.” And with that, Max became completely immobile once again, his eyes moving slowly but constantly around the bay and all the chambers and entries that communicated with it.

  Murphy nodded—not that Max noticed—and stepped back so that he stood alongside the hulking soldier.

  Maximilliano Messina’s story was a strange one, even among the Lost Soldiers. His dossier started normally enough, noting that he’d arrived in Vietnam right after the Tet Offensive. After being shuffled from one training facility to another, he did a short stint with a LRP team. He proved himself to be an expert—one officer used the term artiste—with an M16 and was uncannily quiet in the brush, despite his size. But for reasons unspecified, he was withdrawn from the team and assigned to security.

  That’s where the story got really strange. Usually, a security assignment meant either duty with or in support of MPs, but not in Max’s case. He never spent a minute guarding any of the innumerable bases and depots and wharves that led both locals and GIs alike to assert that “US” stood for “Uncle Sugar.” No, Max was given a special role, one for which the Army didn’t even seem to have a designation: VIP over-watch.

  In short, when Big Brass or a senator or a diplomat arrived in Saigon, Max Messina was never far off. How many of these usually clueless and incautious big shots he had saved was unknown. Because the would-be assassins were only rarely preempted or apprehended; instead, Max racked up an impressive number of one-shot “suppressions.”

  But it was his after-hours efforts that truly defied quantification—because they were never reported. Max not only had the eye and alertness of a sniper, but the mind and instincts of an undercover cop. The number of times that suspected VC death-squad operatives showed up as corpses in an alley or a brothel or a shuttered bar just before one of Max’s VIPs arrived was, as one Embassy security officer put it, “nothing short of eerie.”

  To be fair, Max himself was a little eerie. Those who didn’t know his record—which included almost all the other Lost Soldiers—actually thought that because he was big and soft-spoken and droopy-eyed that maybe he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Murphy had discerned that Max did nothing to counter those low opinions of his abilities; he enjoyed the quiet…and the surety that he would be underestimated by any who might oppose him. So, after being held at gunpoint in the SpinDog Ops center, and to stifle Makarov’s consequent, if sensible, nagging to accept a bodyguard, Murphy acceded to the inevitable and made Max his shadow and guardian angel.

  SpinDogs were now swarming the shiny new shuttle as the wheels of its carrier-trolley were locked off and chocked. As its rear bay opened, a pair of vehicles rolled toward the ramp extending from its interior. They were a weird cross between an ATV, reconnaissance car, and pickup truck. According to Nuncle, they weren’t of terrestrial manufacture, which explained why they were too big for easy operation and had manual controls that sure as hell weren’t designed for human hands or feet. But at some point, the Lost Soldiers who’d commandeered them on a planet called Turkh’saar had fitted them with grips and pads and extensions that made them usable. But comfortable? That was never going to happen.

  The next load wheeled toward the shuttle was what he had actually come to see; the first crates of locally manufactured 7.62x51mm NATO ammunition were winched up into its aft cargo section. He’d inspected the shipment just yesterday. Except for the absence of any manufacturing stamps, it was indistinguishable from the original ammo. And the SpinDogs only had the design specs for five weeks.

  And by next week, the first Huey was supposed to show up. Advance reports indicated that the first production models would, in fact, fly pretty much as expected with little or no adjustments or retooling. Compared to the months or years of teething problems that were typically associated with factory production of new aircraft, this wasn’t just amazing, it was downright suspicious. Anyone capable of creating all the internal systems of even a Vietnam-era Huey, that quickly and that accurately, didn’t just have some truly impressive replication technology, but damn deep pockets. Making parts was one thing, whistling up all the necessary materials for a Huey—plastic, rubber, dozens of different alloys—could mean only one of two things. One: the SpinDogs had diverse material stockpiles in reserve, although God knows how, living in deep space. Or two: they had sold their souls to the devil. And given that these were the descendants of the Ktor, well…

  There were limits to what they could achieve, of course. In fact, it had been none other than Bramath—now his liaison from the primary producer, Family Kormak—who had offered an explanation of those limits in a voice so measured that Murphy had immediately tagged the tone as “plausibly deniable condescension.” Nothing overtly insulting, but there was a subcurrent of spite and contempt running underneath, and the oh-so-patient tempo was exaggerated to the point of patronization. As if Murphy had been a clueless kid of seven.

  “Yes,” Bramath had said, “we can replicate many machines, and very quickly. But it is much more efficient to create a great number of just a few models than it is to produce a small number of many different models. Each model requires special adjustments to the automatic fabrication—we call them autofab—machines. Much time and effort are spent identifying and solving any problems in the process.”

  Assembly was another bottleneck. If it was just a matter of making the parts, that could be accomplished quite quickly. But when the emphasis was on creating completed units, setting up and troubleshooting the automated assembly robots was a real time-sink.

  The only unusual, or at least unexplained, limitation was that the SpinDogs seemed incapable of replicating anything that would qualify as “information te
chnology.” No computers, no logic-driven automation, no expert systems, no “smart” encryption or sensors, and not a single digital control or device. It was the same with their own machinery: 21st century mechanical engineering slaved to 1960s analog controls and systems.

  But despite that, what the SpinDogs were achieving was nothing less than amazing, and when one of the pilots approached the new shuttle, Murphy asked, “How old is this craft?”

  The SpinDog was evidently too enthusiastic to remember to be surly or dismissive to one of the “trogs.” “It is new! First mission, other than its proving flight.”

  Murphy nodded, may have said something congratulatory, but all he could think was, Either this was in storage, or they just built a spacecraft in a little over five weeks. And the SpinDogs don’t seem to have much in the way of reserves, so…

  “Major!”

  Murphy turned; Makarov was running towards him. “Personal relay of messages is not required, Captain.”

  “With all due respect, Major, I believe this one is.”

  Murphy felt his pulse quicken. “Tapper? Has he done it?”

  Makarov nodded slowly: not exactly enthusiastic. “Yes, sir. And he is ready to make his report. On the ‘special’ line.”

  Murphy’s pulse sped up even more, but for a very different reason. The Dornaani or ‘special’ comm channel was to be used at need only…where need was defined as urgent opsec control. Makarov put the Dornaani comm relay in Murphy’s hand.

  Tapper’s voice emerged from it. “Seeker Six is standing by, as requested.”

  “Seeker Six, this is Glass Palace Actual. Good to hear from you, Harry. Sitrep. Append opsec risk.”

  “Roger all, Glass Palace. Objective vehicles seized. Casualties light. None among Lost Soldiers. Two vehicles compromised. DX’ed on site. Full list of commandeered enemy equipment is attached. It’s long, sir. And pretty interesting.”

  So far, so good, and absolutely by the numbers. “Are you able to make planned rendezvous with Saber Six at transfer point?”

  “Affirmative.” A pause. “Are you alone, sir?”

  Murphy looked at Messina and Makarov, who looked at each other, exchanged shrugs, moved back a step. Messina’s head remained on a slow but steady swivel. “I am alone.”

  “Opsec issue, sir. You are familiar with Stabilo, First Scion of Primus Zobulakos?”

  “I am.”

  “He was here before us, sir. Almost poisoned the well with the Sarmatchani. And while I have no actionable evidence, I think he dropped the dime on our plans. We got caught with our pants down at the bridge. The J’Stull knew we were coming.”

  Murphy felt the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. “Anything else, Harry?”

  “Just an observation: Stabilo’s involvement could change the game board. Big time.”

  “I agree, Harry. We don’t get a lot of information on the situations in the Spins, but I’m getting the distinct impression that there are a lot more elbows out than usual.”

  “Because they’re realizing that their days of hiding are numbered?”

  “That, but also because the Otlethes Family is now trying to find a new leader. And the Hardliners are nervous about cooperating with us.”

  “Nervous enough to try to sabotage the alliance?”

  “That’s what I hope to find out.”

  “Sir, I’m not sure which of us is in more immediate danger.”

  “I’m not so sure myself, Harry. And if we talk too long, our ‘friends’ are going to wonder why they’re not able to find the signal. So good luck with the hand-off to Saber Six, and although I’m not Navy…Bravo Zulu, Lieutenant.”

  “Appreciated, sir. Watch your six.”

  “You, too, Harry. Glass Palace out.” Murphy pulled up the list of commandeered equipment, thought for a moment, and then turned to Makarov. “Captain, I need you to send a general communique to our officers regarding our intel-gathering priorities.”

  Makarov had his dataslate at the ready. “New directives, sir?”

  “No. I’m bumping up several items to top priority.”

  “We already have many ‘top priorities’ on the list, sir.”

  “Understood. Bump down those having to do with local customs, trade, and identifying and relaying coordinates for additional water sources and useful flora discovered in the Ashbands.”

  “The what, Major?”

  “Ashbands. The local term for those areas that are vegetated most of the time but are almost fully defoliated by the Searing.”

  Makarov nodded, scribbled. “Done, sir. Which items are now top priority?”

  “All information on the technology level of equipment in caches.” The list and descriptions that Harry sent indicated a wide range of age and sophistication in the vehicles and their systems. “I particularly want to know the upper limit of those we’re likely to find. Append this conjecture: if I was an Overlord, I’d save the best equipment for the more organized and competent operators to follow. So, I suspect that these initial raiders have not been given coordinates for all the caches.

  “All information sources are to be considered, including indig hearsay and legends.”

  “Sir, there could be a great deal of misinformation in there.”

  “Absolutely, but there are ways to detect and exclude a great deal of it. But at this point, all information is good information. We need to get a fix on the most formidable tech we could encounter—or acquire. And the most desirable information would be any information about cache locations that are traditionally not exploited until the actual Harvesters arrive.

  “Next intel priority: what is the upper limit of technology that the satrapies themselves can produce? Or maintain, in the case of any items they’ve salvaged over the centuries? Is there any limit that the Kulsians impose? If so, how severely and actively do they enforce that limit?

  “Lastly, I want to know why the satraps of the Ashbands are usually more powerful than those in the green regions. The SpinDogs told us that was the case, and Tapper’s report seems to confirm it. But why? There’s a power dynamic here we don’t understand yet, and we need to. ASAP. You have all that?”

  “I do, sir. Anything else?”

  “New directive. Makarov, I want you to talk to Max and compare notes on the respective indig vetting procedures you guys used in your respective wars and AOs. Once you’ve got that together, pass it on to me and I’ll add anything that seems appropriate from my time in the Mog. Then we put those into effect at Camp Stark and our other sites as they come online in the Hamain and Ashbands.”

  “Sir,” Makarov said hesitantly, “that will change our current relations with the indigenous peoples. It has been very open, and they have reportedly appreciated that.”

  “I understand, and I hope our cadre are up to explaining why we’ve got to put them in place. Only to be applied to the indigs who enter the bases. Nothing else changes. In fact, I am encouraging increased off-base contact to compensate. Of course, buddy-system and anything else you guys want to add.”

  “Or you could just send me down to have a look around,” Max rumbled.

  Murphy smiled. “I wish I could, but Makarov would have kittens if I didn’t have a bodyguard.”

  Makarov nodded, added, “Sir, regarding the new indig directive: do you expect saboteurs? Informers?”

  “The latter. And not just because of the Sarmatchani or other peoples. Officer and enlisted alike, our unit is anything but a bunch of choir boys—” a phrase he’d picked up from Moorefield’s top kick, Whittaker “—and they’re in the ass-end of nowhere with only rudimentary language skills and no local support staff or providers. As I hear it, everyone dirtside is already hankering after a few beers and a few hours of pleasant company. In three months?” He shrugged. “Soldiers are soldiers. Add that to the growing need to hire locals for support functions on the FOB, and that some of them are poor or corrupt enough to work as spies for the satraps.” Murphy shook his head. “Better we get out ahe
ad of it now, put policies in place while everyone is still passing the jug and singing kumbaya. And frame it as just an annoying necessity because our foes are so sneaky and dishonorable.”

  Makarov almost grinned. “You would have had an excellent career writing occupation pamphlets, sir.”

  “Watch it, Makarov. I’ve got a thick skin, but some insults cut too deep.”

  Max shrugged. “Yeah, but…he’s right, sir.”

  Murphy glared at the two of them, glanced at this slate, saw Moorefield’s update: the second shuttle had completed insertion and was now in level flight, making for what would soon be Camp Stark. “Makarov, send Captain Moorefield advance warning that we’ll be forwarding indig security and vetting protocols within the day. His camp is going to attract all sorts of Sarmatchani almost as soon as it’s set up.”

  Makarov poked the screen of his own device. “Message already drafted, sir. Flagged for priority delivery. Will send pending your approval.”

  The message popped up on Murphy’s screen. He didn’t get as far as the communique’s content; his eye was snagged by, and stopped on, the routing information. “I…I never noticed this before.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Moorefield—Bo—his real name is Hubert? Hubert?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well,” commented Murphy as he pressed the “send” tab, “I see why he goes by ‘Bo.’”

  * * * * *

  Part Three: Moorefield

  Chapter Twenty

  R’Bak

  I can’t keep doing this, Bo. I love you, but you’re never here. I knew you’d be away a lot with the Army and everything, but when you’re home, you’re not here either. I can’t do it anymore. Please try to understand. Don’t come looking for me.

  Bo Moorefield folded the brittle, yellowed paper carefully and slipped it inside a plastic bag. After sealing it against both time and the elements, he tucked it into the angled pocket of the uniform blouse hanging beside his creaky bunk. That Sharron had written the letter over one hundred thirty years before didn’t dull the pain of that wound. Neither did the thought of her being long dead. Nothing helped. His careful romantic plans—to pick up Sharron’s favorite tulips, two bottles of her favorite champagne, and surprise her at her mother’s cabin on Lake Watauga in the Appalachian Mountains—never had a chance. She hadn’t wanted him to come for her, and fate had stepped in to ensure she got her wish.