The lieutenant led the way, shoulders back, practically marching through the encampment.
Kilgore nodded to a cluster of troopers, winked when they grinned, and followed Goody into a self-erecting tent. The drone, still covered with ratty-looking feathers, sat on a pair of specially designed sawhorses. An access panel had been removed and lay on a nearby table. Sergeant Oko, black skin gleaming, looked up from his work. “Lieutenant . . . Major ... Welcome to my office.”
Kilgore grinned and pointed at the machine. “The loot tells me that this pathetic piece of shit actually worked. Is that true?”
Oko’s teeth were extremely white. “Yes, ma’am. Take a look.”
A table loaded with olive drab com gear sat off to one side. Oko touched some keys, video blossomed, and Kilgore found herself looking at a drone-eye view of the desert. It turned and spiraled upward.
“Sorry about that,” Oko said, turning a knob, “but vultures fly in circles. That’s why it worked—because I programed the drone to do the same thing.”
Kilgore nodded as she watched the video blur and snap into focus.
“Here it comes,” the tech sergeant said proudly. “Full color vulture-vision.”
The fact that the target continued to appear then disappear was somewhat annoying—but wondrous nonetheless. Numbers scrolled down the right side of the screen. They provided air speed, air temp, and grid coordinates.
Gradually, as part of each loop, Kilgore caught sight of the dry riverbed and the long line of sandy-colored cyborgs, and felt the excitement start to build. Here it was! The one thing any self-respecting officer would give her right tit to get—first-class, grade-A, no-doubt-about-it intelligence.
The major reached for her wallet, pulled it out, and selected a fifty. “Here you go, Sergeant. You said the blasted thing would work—and you were right. This should cover the bet.”
Oko made a show of holding the bill up to the light before tucking it away. “Let’s kick some ass, Major. I’ve got some drinking to do!”
Their was an artificial roar as the MRLs fired their 122mm rockets in salvos of forty. So, given the fact that Kilgore had ten of the units, nine of which were operational, that meant that the first flight consisted of three hundred sixty airborne weapons, each packing a load of six hundred sixty-six sub-munitions. Each sub had the destructive power of a hand grenade and could penetrate light armor—a truly devastating barrage if the full load landed on target.
Booly and his forces had a full twenty-three seconds worth of warning, which, though less than he would have liked, was sufficient to launch borg-mounted SAMs.
They armed themselves ten seconds after launch, sought the incoming targets, and exploded in midair. Thousands of AA bomblets went off, detonated more than half of the incoming rockets, and sowed the desert with steel.
The explosions followed each other like cracks of thunder, threw black clouds against an otherwise blue sky, and sent tendrils of white spidering in every direction. A second attack followed and exploded so quickly that the bomblets sounded like oversized firecrackers.
Then, as the few survivors from the first salvo neared the point of impact, the next flight left their launchers, winked briefly, and disappeared toward the east.
That’s when Booly heard his quads open up with their 20mm six-barreled Gatling guns. With each weapon firing six thousand rounds per minute, it wasn’t long before a virtual curtain of steel separated the loyalist forces from their attackers.
Many of the missiles were destroyed, but some made it through. One struck the empty riverbed, exploded, and threw a dark column of gravel up into the air. A second scored a direct hit on one of the Trooper IIs, incinerated the borg’s brain, and slaughtered a four-person fire team. A third caused a section of bank to collapse, and a fourth hit the number two tanker.
Blood-warm water was still raining out of the sky as Booly climbed up behind Reeger’s head and strapped himself in. Radio traffic filled his ears. “Bone Two to Bone One. Over.”
“This is Bone One. Go. Over.”
“Request permission to engage. Over.”
“Denied. Stay hot—but hold. Over.”
“Wilco. Over and out.”
Booly didn’t blame Hawkins for wanting to break out of the ravine, but knew the price they would undoubtedly pay. Once the cyborgs topped the bank and formed a line abreast, another curtain of steel would fall. Most of the incoming rockets would be destroyed, but some would make it through, and the casualties would be heavy. Too heavy for such a relatively small force.
He couldn’t wait forever, though. Assuming the other officer was competent, and there was no reason to think otherwise, he or she would attempt to freeze the IF in place. Then, while the cyborgs climbed out of the riverbed, the enemy would race across the desert, hoping to catch them as they topped the bank.
Explosions boomed, the ground shook, and dirt filled the air as some more rockets made it through. A quad, one of only ten that Booly had, was blown in half. Hawkins, unable to contain herself any longer, chinned the transmit switch. “This is Two.... Request permission to engage. Over.”
Booly checked the data projected onto the inside surface of his visor, heard a fighter pilot check in, and gave silent thanks. Air cover could make all the difference. “This is One.... Permission granted. Keep it tight ... and watch the lines.”
“The lines” were projected on visors, displayed on screens, and etched on memories. They began at either end of the formation and angled out to form what looked like a funnel—a funnel formed by thousands of programmable, self-propelled crab mines. Their purpose was to limit the enemy’s ability to maneuver, concentrate Booly’s targets, and neutralize some of their heavy armor.
That was the upside. The downside lay in the fact that once engaged, Booly’s forces would have nowhere to retreat, except through their own mines.
Yes, they could turn the devices off long enough to pass through, but experience showed that between one and two percent of the mines would remain active. That was just one of the reasons why many officers tried to avoid them.
Booly had no choice, however, or felt that he didn’t, not with odds of three to one.
Reeger had been in the Legion for twelve years, first as a bio bod; then, after his first body was destroyed during a low altitude drop, as a cyborg. Many people never recover from something like that, but Reeger had accepted his fate and transformed himself into one of the best borgs the Legion had.
Knowing the order would come, and knowing that each detail was important, the cyborg had talked a bio bod into cutting footholds into the side of the bank.
Other Trooper IIs had been less diligent, perhaps intentionally so, since there was a definite downside to being first over the top. Many were just starting to climb when Reeger arrived on the plain above.
The rocket barrage suddenly let up—a sure sign that the enemy had advanced and was ready to engage.
Booly looked left and right, saw both lines form on him, and knew what ancient calvary officers must have felt like.
Someone, he wasn’t sure who, gave the familiar yell: “Camerone!” And the line swept forward. The battle was joined.
Not satisfied to ride one of the heavily armored tanks, or one of the weapons platforms, Kilgore opted for a scout car armed with a rack of four antitank (AT) missiles and two light machine guns. Mobility was everything, especially for this sort of brawl; the heavy stuff was claustrophobic. A minor detail she had neglected to mention to psych officers over the years. The seat was hot and burned the back of her thighs.
Her driver, a madwoman named Bucey, hit the gas, launched the car off a small rise, and hit the hard pan at forty mph. The gunners, anonymous behind their visors, grinned.
Kilgore would have been thrown out of her seat if it hadn’t been for the harness. She kept a firm grip on the frame-mounted grab bar and tried to peer through the oncoming dust and smoke. What was it that Clausewitz said? “On no account should we overlook the moral effec
t of a rapid, running assault”? The old bastard would have loved Bucey.
The top gunner opened up, a hot shell casing bounced off the back of Kilgore’s neck, and the command channel squawked into life.
“Red Dog Six to Red Dog One. Over.”
“Go, Six. Over.”
“We have visual contact with ten, repeat ten, enemy borgs. Over.”
Kilgore heard herself say “Roger,” wished she had cyborgs of her own, and damned the command structure to hell. There were plenty of borgs, or would have been, if the Pardos hadn’t assigned most of them to the increasingly restless cities.
Traditional armor against cyborgs? How would the contest end? The winner could write a thesis—if there was anyone left to read it. The messages came one on top of the next.
“Red Dog Two to Red Dog One. Enemy aircraft! In from the east! Over.”
Red Dog Six to Red Dog One. Mines! Mines on the right flank . . .”
Kilgore thought she saw the flash of light as Lieutenant Goody died, but there were so many explosions that it was hard to tell. The tanks fired smoke grenades from their launchers and rolled through the self-generated murk.
“Red Dog Three to Red Dog One. The enemy has deployed concentrating crab mines down our left flank. Am trying to clear. Over.”
Kilgore swore. “Booly, you rotten sonofabitch! I want your ass!”
The entire world was concentrated just beyond the windscreen. Bucey spotted a gap in the smoke and pushed the car through.
Booly rocked from side to side as Reeger ran, strained to see what lay ahead, and watched the HUD. Or tried to, since it wasn’t long till the blue deltas penetrated the enemy’s front line and the charge was transformed into a melee. Each side had something of an advantage.
The crew-operated armor boasted numerical superiority and, given the nature of the vehicles they rode, superior firepower as well.
Though more vulnerable than the units that opposed them, the Trooper IIs were highly mobile and made good use of their edge. Especially as the battlefield grew smaller and more concentrated.
As with all such battles, there was no way for Booly or his officers to control the way individual duels were fought. That being the case, Booly found himself as little more than an extremely interested onlooker as Reeger went to war.
A mountainous battle tank loomed ahead. Its cannon probed for targets, machine guns rattled, and sand flew from massive treads.
Reeger took a look, knew he was outgunned, and spun out of the way. Shells dug divots out of the ground as a quad lurched out of the smoke, spotted the enemy tank, and turned to meet it.
The tank fired its 105mm gun and the quad launched a high-explosive antitank (HEAT) warhead. Both weapons hit what they were aimed at, both exploded, and both units were destroyed.
Reeger mounted a .50 caliber machine gun on one arm and an energy cannon on the other. He fired both at a scout car and was rewarded with an explosion. A wheel soared into the air, fell, and bounced away.
That’s when something tore through the cyborg’s chest armor and cut his power. The Trooper II’s weapons went off-line, the gyro stabilizer failed, and he toppled forward. Booly went, too.
Kilgore flew forward as Bucey stood on the brakes. A weapons platform drifted past, fired its twin 30mm cannons up into the sky, and turned toward the south. Where were the reb planes, anyway? Four had checked in but were nowhere to be seen.
Bucey spun the wheel to the left, stomped on the gas, and swore as a battle tank poked its 105mm snout out of the smoke. The vehicles missed each other by less than a foot.
Kilgore gritted her teeth and held on. Her unit had suffered thirty percent casualties—not counting the damage enemy aircraft had inflicted on the rear-echelon supply vehicles. The battlefield looked like a wreck-strewn parking lot. Should she stay, and go for broke? Or run, and live to fight another day?
An already-burning weapons platform shuddered as an ammo locker cooked off. The scout car swerved, paused so a medic could jump on board, and took off again. Kilgore pulled a gut check and found the decision was made.
Booly hit the harness release, pushed himself up away from Reeger’s body, and spoke via the helmet’s com link. “Reeg? You okay?”
“No, sir. ’Fraid not,” came the reply. “You’d better run, sir. I can’t get up.”
“Then both of us will run,” Booly said, fumbling for the release handle. “Only it’s your turn to ride.”
“No, sir! You shouldn’t do that. Run while you . . .”
Booly pulled a small lever, opened an armor-plated hatch, and jerked the cyborg’s brain box out of his body. The organic contents weighed two and a half pounds, but the support elements and protective casing brought the total weight up to thirty.
The box came equipped with retractable straps. Booly slipped his arms through and checked the assault weapon’s ammo indicator. Then, ready to fire, he entered the smoke.
It was Hawkins who first realized that they had won—if such a term could properly be used in connection with a force that had suffered more than fifty percent casualties.
The first indication was a slackening of fire, followed by less contact, and more activity from Tyspin’s fighters.
While the aircraft had made short work of the planes sent to support the rebel advance, and destroyed the majority of their support vehicles, they were of limited value where ground support was concerned.
Worried lest his pilots bag some friendlies, the wing commander ordered them to wait. What he needed was a break. It came when the smoke started to clear and the rebs tried to run.
A weapons platform took a direct hit from a five-hundred-pound bomb. It ceased to exist and pieces of sharp edged metal fell like rain. They rattled across the hood, killed the top gunner, and buried themselves in the sand.
“Red Dog Three to Red Dog One. Where the hell is the air cover? Over.”
Kilgore, who could have been offended, wasn’t. She wondered the same thing. “Flying formation over Los Angeles ... or up Pardo’s ass,” she replied acerbically. “Circle the wagons. Over.”
The maneuver, practiced till they hated her guts, required that the vehicles coalesce around the surviving weapons platforms.
The training paid off as the twenty-six platforms drifted together, linked their weapons via one computer, and opened fire. Gatling guns, SAMs, and automatic weapons swept the sky. The rest of the force, scout cars and battle tanks alike, gathered under the protective umbrella.
Two fighters went down within the first three minutes, and a third followed only seconds later.
Short on fuel and low on ordnance, the fighters made one last pass, killed a self-propelled howitzer, and withdrew. The battle was over.
It was cooler at night, refreshingly so, and Winters, who had orders to hold the fort, was busy receiving what remained of Booly’s force, setting priorities, and allocating resources. They owned the air, so the airport’s lights were on.
General Kattabi, hands clasped behind his back, watched the last fly form touch down and kill power. Medics hurried aboard, and a stream of litters came off, followed by a cart loaded with brain boxes. Two appeared to be damaged and were hooked to life-support equipment. More lives and more resources drained away.
The last soldier down the ramp—or second to last, since Fykes followed him out—was Colonel William Booly.
Kattabi released a long, slow breath—and was surprised to learn that he’d been holding it. Why? Because he liked Booly? Which he certainly did.
Because of the sacrifice that his parents had made? Which they certainly had.
Or because of something else? A more selfish reason? He knew the answer was yes.
The simple fact was that he needed Booly, would need Booly, when and if the big battle came. For if there was one thing that Kattabi knew, or thought he knew, it was the fact that the real fight lay ahead.
Somehow, some way, the isolated pockets of resistance such as the one Booly had established would have to be con
nected, coordinated, and supplied. Not something he could accomplish alone. Booly spotted the general, crossed the tarmac, and rendered a salute.
Kattabi returned it, said, “You look like shit,” and motioned toward his command car. “Come on. I’ll buy you a drink.”
Booly frowned. “Thanks, sir, but I have a lot to do, and . . .”
“And you have the best damned XO in the Legion,” Kattabi finished for him. “Let Winters do her job.”
Booly paused, realized that the general was correct, and tossed his gear into the car. “Sergeant Fykes!”
“Sir!”
“Take the rest of the day off.”
Fykes grinned, said, “Yes, sir,” and did a smart about-face.
Kattabi watched the noncom march away. “He was a chaplain once.... Did you know that?”
Booly didn’t know that and found it hard to believe. Fykes? A man of God? The notion was ridiculous. “You’re joking.”
“No,” Kattabi replied. “I’m not. But that’s the Legion for you. Some are what they appear to be ... and some aren’t. Come on, time for that drink.”
One drink led to a second, to dinner in a local restaurant, and to a half bottle of gin. It was a soldier’s solution to a soldier’s problem, and a poor one, since not even an ocean of alcohol could bring the dead back to life.
The sleep that followed was more like unconsciousness than sleep. Booly woke to a headache, a mouth that tasted like Dooth dung, and a lot of sore muscles.
He took a shower, donned a fresh uniform, and hit the mess hall. Most of the troops had eaten by then, and a robot was cleaning the floor. Winters, her comp on the table in front of her, lay in wait. She motioned with a half-filled coffee cup. “No offense, sir, but you look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Booly replied, putting his tray on the table. “I’m glad there’s something everyone can agree on.”
By Blood Alone Page 26
