Murphy's Lawless: A Terran Republic Novel

by Charles E. Gannon

  If we had more harnesses, we could lash up a whole damned team of them. That would get these things moving.

  “Hey, sir?” Sublete called behind him. “That one’s in pretty bad shape.”

  Bo glanced back over his shoulder. “The vehicle? What’s wrong with it?”

  “Sir, I ain’t sure it’s gonna move much at all,” Sublete said. “Both of the back wheels look shot and the axle is bent. Looks like it took a hit or two on the retreat. Got shot up good.”

  Bo turned back to the vehicle and saw exactly what Sublete meant. He hadn’t had the time to give the vehicles more than a cursory look at first. But as luck—or Murphy’s Law?—would have it, the first two vehicles had been the good ones. It was the last two that were much worse for wear. In fact, where the rear axle should have run straight through the rear of the fourth vehicle’s frame, there was a definite curve.

  The damned thing’s gonna wobble like one of those wooden duck toys. Bo shook his head. We’re lucky it made it this far.

  “Sergeant Cook!” Bo yelled. “Give me one rider back here. We’re gonna double the push on this one with the whinnies.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cook replied and spun his own whinnie toward the soldiers who remained at the base of the trail.

  Bo looked over the dismounted troops left from the raiding party: they looked tired and dehydrated, but still ready. “You men, get moving. Stay between these two vehicles in case we need your help to recover them. Lock and load. Grab anything else that needs to get up the trail and move out.”

  Scout took his position next to another whinnie, a lighter-colored female, behind the fourth vehicle. With two whinnies in front and two behind, the vehicle lurched forward and moved up the trail. It wobbled worse than Bo had predicted, but it kept moving. After a minute, they lurched into the first of the winding turns, clearing the close rock outcroppings on either side by scant inches. Bo risked a glance at his ancient ticking watch.

  We’re gonna make it.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  R’Bak

  Away from the tight draw where the main trail ascended to the lip of the tableland, the scrub brush thinned. At the head of the column, Aliza saw Whittaker gesture with his arms out like wings and the rest of the experienced riders swung outward in a triangular formation the soldiers called a wedge. As she rode, she saw at least a couple of her section looking at her for instruction or direction. She repeated the same gesture as Whittaker at the front of the formation. Her section of six riders swept out behind her in a similar wedge of their own, doubling the amount of dust kicked up by the formation.

  She couldn’t help but grin. Athena galloped forward at a steady, manageable pace, and the sensation she was truly and absolutely free washed over her. R’Bak was a far cry from southern Germany, but that didn’t matter. In fact, maybe that helped. For the first time since Palestine, she felt like she belonged. The joy of their ride was palpable. Every time she’d been astride a whinnie, she’d almost forgotten about Dachau.

  Back on Earth, all she’d wanted to do was go home, but there hadn’t been a home. She’d listened to Ben Mazza and others that their future was in Palestine, but ultimately that hadn’t even been an option. Alive in a future so removed from that earlier time and place, it was easier to simply focus on moving as one with Athena and, for the first time in as long as she could remember, being in and enjoying the moment. Just that and nothing else.

  The dust cloud to the west continued to grow. Riding hard, they kept a steady pace that would have fatigued a modern horse within twenty minutes. They pushed north, following the near-vertical face of the tableland’s margin. Red-orange cliffs glowed in the light of R’Bak’s star. Along the edges, at almost symmetrical distances, bluffs extended from the escarpment into the lower plains. Whether wind, water, or something else had carved them, the rocky spurs shielded at least a part of the terrain between each. One of those tight, dark draws had to have a trail up to the tableland and from there, a way home.

  A way home.

  That she considered R’Bak and the Lost Soldiers as her home didn’t strike Aliza as ironic. It was a progression, of sorts. Acceptance of the fate dealt to her was no small task. Yet, with no one around her dedicated to the project of exterminating her and the people from which she was descended, there was hope, once again. And as long as there was hope, she remembered her father saying often, there was light. And light would always prevail.

  Given time and heart, Aliza, anything is possible.

  Racing east along the bluffs, Aliza saw Whittaker turn his whinnie to the right, toward one of the rocky bluffs. There was enough of a curvature to the hump of rock that a pass, whether washed out by erosion or something else, was likely. That would give them a way up to the higher ground. Above the draw, the pitch of the terrain increased to near vertical in places. If they could get up there, the enemy might not give chase. In the shadows of the morning light, there seemed to be some open areas near the bluff. Perhaps they were even enough to maneuver around and through.

  Aliza felt her mount pivot toward the draw without any pressure on the reins and grinned. Bo was right. They knew. Somehow, the big friendly animals knew more about humans and their intentions than should have been possible.

  Let’s hope that’s enough to save the day.

  * * *

  A kilometer up the pass, the tight scrub brush along either side of the trail dwindled enough that Bo could see the entire northern horizon. What he saw chilled him. The dust cloud marking the enemy’s approach hadn’t only doubled in size, but it appeared to be broad enough that it might still span the distance between the ready vehicles and his patrol, and the screen line being raised by Whittaker and Turan’s rapid transit across the front of the tableland. Time was always the most perishable resource in a combat operation, and now, with the enemy already maneuvering to intercept, it was against them.

  “Sublete!” he called over his shoulder. The RTO had taken up a position a few meters behind the center of the vehicle that Bo and Scout were pushing from the left rear. “Call OP One. They are to fall back up the game trail and plot TRPs along the way. Authorize them to call for fire as necessary. I want our mortars covering that pathway. Got it?”

  “Word for word, sir,” Sublete replied. Almost immediately, Bo heard the young radio operator giving OP One the instructions to shutter their operations forward and race back to the tableland proper. Target reference points would provide the limited mortar support from the rear with a means of rapidly zeroing in on that likely avenue of approach. Every single way up the tableland’s escarpment had been targeted, just like the pass they had been operating in. Every good defensive plan provided a contingency to deal with every possible avenue of attack. In this case, they had to rely upon mortars. The only other way to deter enemy advances would have been minefields and obstacle emplacements, but they hadn’t had the time, supplies, or equipment for those. The lack of emplaced obstacles was particularly unfortunate because that meant there was no way to slow down attackers. The only option was to distract and lure them into a pre-selected engagement area. Assuming Whittaker and Turan found a way back up to the top of the tableland. And assuming it was a place where contingency Charlie could be applied to maximum effect.

  Scout shuffled in the loose soil and rock of the path, and the vehicle’s forward progress hitched. The other whinnies at their side and the two in front strained and kept the vehicle moving. Bo felt rather than saw Scout get his feet under him. The big whinnie leaned against the broken vehicle with an audible grunt that sounded distinctly angry. Bo couldn’t help but smile.

  “C’mon, Scout.” He leaned down over the whinnie’s neck. “You got this, buddy.”

  The second switchback up the trail—at roughly the halfway point of the two-kilometer journey—was the narrowest part. The two towing whinnies rode shoulder-to-shoulder as they made the turn. Bo and Sergeant Cook struggled to fit their mounts in the space. Large rock formation
s shielded both sides of the trail, pinching its width down to three meters. To make matters worse, the pitch of the trail increased to a good seven percent incline. Back on Earth, powerful tractor-trailers with full loads struggled to make it up that kind of hill. The wobbling axle ground against both wheels and the vehicle lurched in multiple directions at once.

  “Yah!” To his right, Bo saw Cook kick his whinnie hard in the side. Nothing changed. His mount was working as hard as it could to shove the vehicle with its left foreleg while digging its rear legs into the dirt for any kind of purchase. “Yah!”

  The mount trumpeted again, and Bo heard Scout snort loudly and flinch his neck to look over his shoulder. The flash of anger caught Bo off guard, but he understood. They were doing all they could and didn’t need outside encouragement.

  “Cook!” Bo leaned over. “Don’t kick her again.”

  Cook’s entire face was a question. “Sir?”

  “They’re giving it all they can already. They’re not like horses or mules.” Bo pointed at his reins. “When’s the last time you really had to guide her?”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Have you done a damned thing to get her to put a shoulder into that vehicle? To push with three legs like that? Did you even think that was possible?”

  Cook’s face regained composure and realization at the same instant. “Oh, shit! Er…Sir. You’re right.”

  Scout trumpeted softly. Bo wondered if he meant to say something like “Finally.” Or maybe Scout had recognized that the entire unit at Camp Stark seemed to use “Oh, Shit” as their motto.

  “Let them do their thing. All we gotta do is—”

  Metal squealed as the axle bent sharply near the left rear wheel. The gun platform crashed into the dirt just as Bo and Scout, driving forward and right behind the wheel, saw it shear away. The sound was similar to an explosion, so loud that the whinnies flinched. Scout, leaning heavily into the vehicle, only had enough time to flinch backward.

  Bo couldn’t seize the reins fast enough. There was the brief sensation of flying backward, untethered through the air until he hit the ground. And then—

  Nothing.

  * * *

  Do you remember that night at the enology lab? Out in the vineyard? I do. I remember the clouds were indigo in the reflected city lights. The rains were long gone, and we sat out there on a blanket and watched soundless lightning race along the underside of the thunderheads up toward Tupelo. You tried so hard to be romantic. Roses and wine. It was sweet, but for a second date it wasn’t much. You asked me about it later. Why hadn’t I been ready to kiss you? Do you remember where we went after that? That I needed to drop off an assignment at Justin’s apartment? And he wasn’t there, so we went back to my apartment and watched a movie?

  I think about that night a lot. If Justin had been there, I wouldn’t have come back to your car. I wouldn’t have gone out with you anymore. I shouldn’t have kept going because I knew. I thought—I told myself—you were good enough.

  But I knew better.

  * * *

  Bo came awake with a start, wiping at his warm, wet face frantically and checking his palm for blood. Instead, he saw thick globs of clear liquids filled with the tiny bubbles of spittle. Above him, Scout was staring down at him with an expectant, if not concerned, look on his angular face. The whinnie made a deep-throated sound oddly like a cat’s purr and stepped back as Bo sat up, rubbing the back of his head.

  “Easy, sir.” Sergeant Cook was at his side with a compress. “You’ve got a nasty knot back there, but no blood. You okay?”

  As he sat up, the world swam from left to right and back again violently. He blinked several times in succession to clear his vision. The pain began as a small buzz and grew until it filled his head and threatened to block out everything.

  “How long was I out?”

  Cook shrugged. “Less than a minute. Gave us a good scare, though. Never seen a whinnie get so scared, either. He was all over you, licking your face and scratching the ground. I think you’re right about them, sir. I think they really care for us.”

  Bo nodded and instantly regretted the slight movement of his head. He blinked again, and his dizziness abated. “Help me up,” he asked Cook. The sergeant stood and extended a hand, which Bo took. As he stood, Bo felt better but still wobbly. He’d hit his head plenty on armored vehicles and knew the feeling and how to operate with it. He rubbed the back of his head and gingerly probed the swollen spot. It wasn’t an open wound, but he’d still need it checked.

  “Bird went with the first vehicle, didn’t he?” Bo asked. The diminutive medic was nowhere in sight.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bo laughed. “Dammit. You don’t have any aspirin, do you?”

  Cook shook his head. “You want me to send for Bird? He can get back down here and throw it over to us from the other side of the wreck.”

  “No time,” Bo grunted.

  He studied the collapsed tactical that was wedged solidly in the middle of the tight trail. There was no way it would move in any direction without divine intervention or serious explosives.

  “Mission failure,” he said and spat in the R’Baku dirt.

  “That ain’t your fault, sir.” Cook replied.

  “The hell it’s not.” Bo fought the urge to kick at the dirt he’d spat in.

  “We did the best we could,” Cook offered.

  Bo slapped at the dirt on his legs with both hands. “We should have gotten down the pass faster.”

  Cook said nothing in response. He didn’t have to. The commander was always the one to blame. No matter if his intentions were honorable and good. The mission had been to recover the entire raiding party and the vehicles they’d secured. Of paramount interest were the gun platforms, and while twenty-three out of twenty-four wasn’t bad, they were not going to get the final vehicle up the pass. For Bo, that was tantamount to failure.

  “Saber Six, this is OP Two, over.”

  Bo gestured for Sublete and the radio handset, reached up for it with a grunt, and got a fresh bolt of dull, throbbing pain down his spine. “Saber Six, go.”

  “Saber Six, we’ve got visual contact with lead enemy elements. Estimate they’re fifteen klicks out and have slowed their advance. The lead formation has sighted the screen and diverted almost fully in that direction. How copy?”

  Bo took a breath and held it for a moment before releasing it. The plan was working so far. “Good copy, OP Two. What else?”

  “Sir, confirming the lead element is a regimental-sized force. Two battalions are line abreast in the front of the formation.”

  Bo blinked. “Say again your last?”

  The RTO repeated the report and Bo almost wobbled back to the ground. A regiment? Heading straight toward sections three and four? He exhaled slowly. He’d been right; this was not a cat he’d be able to skin. This was a cat he had to kill. He nodded, depressed the key on the handset. “Copy, OP Two. Relay that SITREP to Starkpatch, coded for immediate relay to Glass Palace. Relay to Saber Nine, I am en route with reinforcements. Time now. Saber Six, out.”

  He ran his fingers through his sweaty hair and realized his hat was missing. In the intense radiation of R’Bak’s two stars, skin cancers and melanoma were all too real a possibility. He turned a slow circle and found his boonie hat. With the care and patience of a much older man, he bent forward and grabbed it from the ground. As he stood up to his full height, the pain and the wobbling sensation weren’t anywhere near what they had been before. His adrenaline had kicked in at the most opportune time. If they didn’t get a move on, his idea to counterattack the J’Stull as they chased the screen wouldn’t materialize.

  Bo took a quick breath and exhaled it just as quickly to clear his mind and felt one of his ears pop involuntarily. He shook his head, albeit gently, and looked up at Cook who was the only senior leader on the downhill side of the vehicle.

  “Get everyone on the other side of the wreck up the pass, right now. Send a
mount to the vehicles. Tell them to stand by and not start any engines until I tell them to. We’re gonna ride for the screen and hope like hell they’ve found a pass.”

  Cook nodded and bounced his whinnie up to the vehicle and called over the platform for the others to fall back to the vehicles. As he looked around, Bo counted: Cook, Sublete and their whinnies were with him on the downslope from the wreck. Four soldiers from the raiding party and two indig guides were with them as well. He gestured at them and then back down the trail. “Double up on the whinnies and get to the bottom ASAP. Mount up on a vehicle and get ready to attack. We’re not playing defense anymore.”

  Seeing the dismounted troops scramble aboard the available mounts took some of the weight of command off his shoulders. He raised the handset again. “OP Two, the pass is blocked. Personnel upslope of the block are recovering in your direction. Report when they rendezvous with recovery forces. Break.”

  He released the transmit button and then pressed it again two seconds later. Old habits died hard. “Relay to Saber Nine, we’re en route. Need their location and route. Over.”

  “Saber Six, OP Two. Good copy. Will relay to Saber Nine when we can see them again. Over.”

  “You don’t have eyes on them now?” Bo asked, incredulous.

  “Negative, sir. We haven’t seen them for over ten minutes. They’re too close to the bluffs down there. Lost radio contact at the same time. Over.”

  Bo ran a hand over his face and placed his tongue between his teeth as though intending to bite his words back. He had failed.

  “Sonuvabitch!”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Six