Kobbi smiled, brought a blunt finger to his lips, and winked. Owens had little choice but to get out of the way as the officer and his legionnaires brushed past and made their way down along the porch.
The moment they were gone Owens turned, and was just about to descend the stairs, when he discovered that a Naa blocked the way. The trooper grinned and shook his head. Owens swore, turned, and went upstairs instead. There were times when it simply didn’t pay to get up.
Teeg Jackson wasn’t asleep—but he wasn’t quite awake either. Rather he was floating in the never-never land that lay between the two. A fan blew cold air out of a vent located right over his king-sized bed. His arms were cold, but the rest of his body was deliciously warm thanks to the naked women who slept to either side of him. A rather interesting contrast.
So, if it hadn’t been for the fact that his bladder was uncomfortably full, a slight headache caused by the excessive amount of alcohol consumed the night before, and the fact that his mouth tasted like the floor of a Koog bear’s cave everything would have been just fine. That was when he heard boards creak and reached for the handgun stashed under his pillow, only to discover that it had migrated during the lovemaking hours before. Jackson was still groping for the weapon when the door crashed open, bodies rushed into the room, and a noncom pointed an assault weapon at his head. “Hold it right there, bucko . . . The colonel wants a word with you.”
One of the prostitutes screamed and pulled the blanket up under her chin, while the other sat up and allowed the sheet to fall away. She had large breasts, and the male legionnaires leered approvingly. Jackson looked from the assault weapon to the officer who had appeared at his bedside. “So what’s up? Did I spit on the sidewalk or something?”
Kobbi raised his eyebrows. “Citizen Jackson I presume? Or should I say, Lieutenant Commander Jackson? Back before the mutiny that is.”
Jackson sighed and sat up. He had thick black hair, brown eyes, and dark skin. Stubble covered his cheeks. “Give me a break, Colonel. Both the captain and the XO went over to the mutineers. What was I supposed to do? Arrest all 211 members of the crew? That’s yesterday’s news. Nobody cares.”
“Oh, but they do,” Kobbi replied. “In fact, the local customs officer was not only kind enough to show me a facsimile of a CONFED arrest warrant that has your name on it, he told me where to find you. Now, just bail out of that bed, get some clothes on, and let’s go for a ride. I hear you have an MDT-764 that’s equipped with a Thraki stealth generator, and I’d like to see it.”
Only one of the legionnaires was female, and she watched with interest as the smuggler got out of bed, grabbed his clothes, and began to dress. He stood well over six feet tall, had a muscular build, and an unusual number of scars.
Twenty minutes later one of the mining company’s trucks bounced into a jungle clearing north of town, jerked to a stop, and coughed as a legionnaire shut it down.
Kobbi jumped to the ground, rounded the front of the vehicle, and produced a long slow whistle. Camo netting had been stretched from one side of the clearing to the other in order to conceal the medium-duty transport from above. Despite the fact that her hull had been blackened by countless reentries, and the vessel was at least ten years old, she looked quite serviceable. Unfortunately, the MDT was far too small to handle half the battalion—never mind a whole bunch of Ramanthian hardware. Still, something beat the hell out of nothing. “So,” the legionnaire inquired, “is your ship ready to lift?”
A soldier pushed the smuggler forward, and Jackson nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, she’s ready.”
“Good. You’re going to take a message to Algeron for me. A very important message. Then, within a couple of days, you’re going to return here.”
Jackson felt a sudden surge of hope but was careful to keep any sign of the emotion off his face. The idiot was going to turn him loose! All he had to do was play along, lift, and haul butt! He nodded soberly. “Sir, yes sir.”
Kobbi smiled thinly. “Good . . . I’m glad you feel so co-operative. Just to make sure that you continue to feel that way, I’m going to send a naval officer plus four ratings along to keep an eye on you. Maybe, if you cooperate, I’ll see what I can do to get the charges against you reduced.”
Jackson scowled. “Or?”
“Or I’ll pull my sidearm and shoot you in the frigging head. You’re good at what you do, or so the customs officer claims, but my swabbies can handle this ship as well. You decide.”
“I’ll take option one.”
Kobbi smiled angelically. “I thought you would.”
FIRE BASE ALPHA, THE GREAT PANDU DESERT, PLANET SAVAS
The Ramanthian troop transport passed over the wrecked ship at one thousand units, lost altitude, and circled back. Group Commander Pinther Nooba peered between the pilots at the desert landscape below. Force Commander Dontha’s orders were to put down near the wreck, take a couple of prisoners if there were any to be had, and kill the rest. Once that was accomplished Nooba was to inspect the ship’s cargo holds, inventory the contents, and radio for further instructions. But how he went about it was up to him, and the infantry officer was cautious. While there weren’t any signs of life below, anything could be concealed within the ship itself. “Circle the vessel again,” he instructed, “only wider this time.”
The pilot obeyed. As the transport circled, Nooba scanned the desert floor for tracks, for bodies, for anything that might suggest that one or more of the humans had survived the crash. The ship continued to produce enough heat that sensors aboard the orbiting destroyer could detect it, but that didn’t mean anyone was alive. In fact, based on what the experts told him, there was a good chance that the transport’s power planet had survived the impact and remained on-line without human assistance.
“All right,” Nooba said, as the assault ship completed a full circuit of the crash site, “put us down a quarter unit to the west. Stand by, and if I call for you, come in guns blazing. Understood?”
The pilots considered the question to be insulting but nodded anyway and put the ship down where they had been told to. Sand billowed, a ramp hit the ground, and fifteen Ramanthian soldiers shuffled out onto the surface. Each trooper wore a sculpted skullcap with a built-in com set, carried a Negar V assault rifle, and wore a saddlebag-style pack that contained extra magazines, emergency rations, and a rudimentary first-aid kit. Specialists carried additional gear, including a radio that could reach Hagala Nor, cutting torches that could cut through hull metal, and two fire-and-forget surface-to-surface missile launchers. It was a potent force and more than adequate for the task at hand.
The air was a good deal warmer than it was to the northwest, but the Ramanthians liked the additional heat and felt invigorated by it. Nooba ordered the troopers to spread out, to put more distance between themselves, and they obeyed. The ship grew larger, then towered above them, throwing a shadow to the north.
That was the moment when Calvo said, “Now!” and the carefully groomed sand parted as a pair of T-2s sat up and opened fire. Lif Hogger, better known to his teammates as “the hog,” had never been in combat before. He fired his arm-mounted machine gun too early and had to walk the geysers of sand back toward the enemy.
That gave the Ramanthians three seconds’ worth of warning, and they made good use of it. They fired, bullets clanged, but shattered against armor. The real threat lay in the shoulder-launched weapons that the bugs tried to bring to bear before the autofire consumed them. Bodies jerked and twirled as if participating in a macabre dance as Nooba and his entire team were slaughtered.
The group commander never got a message off, but he didn’t need to, since the transport pilots could see the battle and took immediate action. They used full emergency power to lift off, activated all of the ship’s weapons, and were already firing as they swept in on the human ship.
But that was when an enormous quad rounded the wreck’s stern, locked on to the incoming target, and fired a single missile. The transport’s onboard
computer attempted to launch flares in an effort to lure the oncoming weapon away, but the range was too short. The SAM slammed into the Ramanthian hull and exploded. There was a loud boom! followed by a flash of orange-red light, and a cloud of black smoke. Chunks of still-flaming debris cartwheeled across the sky and dug minicraters in the sand. There was silence for a moment followed by a reedy cheer on com channel five as the widely dispersed defenders celebrated their victory.
Both Rono-Ra and Calvo had crowded into the wreck’s tiny C&C compartment. The Hudathan stared at a screen as the debris fell and released a slow breath. “That was the easy one . . . Now it will get ugly. Very, ugly.”
Calvo nodded. “Yes,” she said soberly, “I know.”
SAVAS PRIME, PLANET SAVAS
The mine shaft yawned like a huge mouth as a constant stream of townspeople, Jithi, and legionnaires came and went through the opening. The tailings looked like a long gray tongue that spilled down a chute, passed over the gravel access road, and fanned out over the slope below. It wasn’t pretty, but it made a great place to store all the material removed from the Spirit of Natu, which explained all the comings and goings.
Vehicles were in short supply, which meant that Santana had been forced to walk up the road to the point where a flight of heavily used wooden stairs led up toward a cluster of shacks. The officer’s uniform was already soaked with sweat, and the climb did nothing to cool him down. A sentry saluted, and Santana replied in kind. “The colonel sent for me . . . Have you got any idea of where I could find him?”
The private nodded. “Straight back, sir. About a hundred feet or so. There’s an office on the left.”
Santana nodded, passed a file of heavily laden Jithi laborers who were headed the other way, and hoped Kobbi knew what he was doing. After the Natu had been destroyed, the community’s leaders, including Cam Qwan, had announced plans to follow the battalion with or without Kobbi’s permission.
Faced with that reality, the colonel decided that it was better to take control of the entire effort rather than leave the civilians to manage on their own. Or, as he had explained it to his company commanders, “I’m damned if I do . . . and damned if I don’t. They’ll blame me if I leave the cits to their own devices, and somebody gets hurt, and they’ll blame me if I lead them into harm’s way. I can’t frigging win. But if they’re coming along, let’s put the bastards to work.”
That seemed risky at best, but it wasn’t Santana’s choice to make, and that was fine. There were advantages to being a lieutenant . . . and not having to make certain decisions was among them.
The air was cooler back inside the hill, and Santana’s wet uniform felt clammy against his skin. The office was well lit, and the colonel was visible beyond the filthy duraplast windows. The cavalry officer made his way across a pair of well-worn tracks, nodded to a platoon leader from Alpha Company, and entered the office. Sergeant Brio was there, as was Private Eckers, both of whom sat on metal chairs. The legionnaires were dirty, soaked with sweat, and covered with scratches. The noncom looked up from his muddy boots. His eyes were filled with pain. “Sorry, sir. We caught up with them . . . but the bastards were waiting for us.”
Santana looked over at Kobbi. The officer was seated behind a beat-up desk. His face was bleak. “They killed Lieutenant Awanda, plus Ito, Ricci, Nugen, and Floro.”
Anger flashed in Santana’s eyes. “Let me go after them sir. I’ll find the bastards and kill them.”
“Thanks,” Kobbi said grimly, “but no thanks. Not right now. First I lost Gaphy . . . and then Awanda. That makes you the most experienced officer that Bravo Company has left. I’m putting you in command. You can choose your own XO plus a new company sergeant. Gaphy was a leech addict, and Kuga-Ka is a psychopath. That means the company was poorly served. See what you can do to whip the outfit into shape. We leave at first light. Any questions?”
Santana wanted to push back, wanted to say that Haaby deserved better, but managed to choke the words off. “Sir, no sir.”
“Good,” Kobbi replied as he turned to Brio. “Don’t let this eat at you, Sergeant. It wasn’t your fault. Take Eckers down to Owen’s Place and have a drink on me.”
Brio stood. Eckers did likewise. The noncom forced a grin. “Sir, yes sir.”
“And Sergeant Brio . . .”
“Sir?”
“I’m counting on you to help the lieutenant bring Bravo company back to full effectiveness.”
Brio nodded. “Yes sir. The lieutenant can count on me.”
Kobbi waited until both legionnaires had left, checked the time on his wrist term, and stood. “Keep an eye on Brio . . . He blames himself for what happened to the patrol. Maybe you can come up with something to take his mind off the ambush.”
Santana raised both eyebrows. “Like the company sergeant slot, sir?”
“That’s your decision, not mine,” the senior officer replied slyly, “but I like the way you think. Come on, there’s something I want you to see.”
Santana followed Kobbi out of the office, back along the rails, to the opening of the shaft. Both officers squinted into the harsh sunlight. Thanks to the fact that the mine was positioned high on a hillside, they found themselves looking down on the jungle. Kobbi looked toward the north, paused for a second, and raised a short stubby finger. “There! Do you see it? Coming up out of the trees.”
Santana watched as a spaceship rose from what had to be a clearing, hovered for a moment, and turned toward the south. “It belongs to a smuggler named Jackson,” the senior officer explained. “I sent some naval personnel along to keep an eye on him. If he can get past the Ramanthian destroyer, and if he can make it to Algeron, they’ll send a task force to pick us up. Our job is to have the hypercom ready for shipment when the swabbies arrive.”
Santana looked from the ship back to the officer. “And if he doesn’t get through?”
Kobbi grimaced. “Then it’s my guess that the bugs will send a task force of their own. Assuming that we’re in Hagala Nor by then, we’ll destroy the hypercom and hold for as long as we can.”
Santana remembered Captain Danjou, the valiant battle at Camerone, and knew what Kobbi had in mind. “Then I hope Jackson succeeds.”
“Yeah,” Kobbi agreed, as the ship accelerated away, “so do I.”
Teeg Jackson watched the jungle slide under the Ghost’s belly, saw a flash of gold where the sunlight reflected off the southern ocean, and said, “Hang on!” as he brought the bow up and applied full power.
The Spirit of Natu’s captain was a career naval officer—and one of those who had remained loyal during the mutiny a few years earlier. His name was Posson, and he didn’t like Jackson, which was why he kept a close eye on the smuggler as he pushed the MDT up through the atmosphere. “So,” the naval officer demanded, “when will you activate the stealth generator?”
“When it will do the most good,” the renegade answered resentfully, “now shut up and let me fly this thing.”
Posson didn’t like being told to “shut up,” but was in no position to do anything about it and glowered as the Ghost entered the upper atmosphere.
Alarms had gone off aboard the Ramanthian destroyer within seconds of the MDT’s departure from Savas, and fighters had been launched seconds later. By the time the human vessel emerged from the atmosphere the attack ships had already converged on the spot where their computers projected that transport would appear. Each pilot knew it was important to kill the human vessel quickly, before it could get far enough away from the planet to jump, and thereby escape.
Energy cannons fired, missiles were launched, and Captain Posson waited to die as Jackson’s hands danced over the controls. That was when the smuggler slapped a red button, the hull lurched unexpectedly, and a specially designed torpedo dropped free of the hull. “Here’s your stealth generator,” the pilot said as he touched a series of buttons and turned the ship to port.
Even as the bottom fell out of his stomach Posson saw a huge explosion bloss
om on one of the screens. “What the hell was that?”
“That was the Ghost blowing up,” Jackson answered succinctly. “At least that’s what I hope the bugs will believe . . . which would leave us free to duck out the back door.”
Posson imagined how the sequence would look to the Ramanthians. A ship was fired on, a ship exploded, and a ship disappeared. All very tidy. But would it actually work?
Five seconds passed, followed by ten, followed by twenty. Posson let out a long slow breath as Jackson put the bulk of Savas between the destroyer and his ship prior to accelerating away. “Well, I’ll be damned,” the naval officer said. “You did it.”
“I’m glad you noticed,” Jackson replied sarcastically. “All we have to do now is jump into Ramanthian-held space, calculate the next hop, and bingo! We’ll be off Algeron.”
Posson frowned. There were limits on how far a vessel could safely travel in a single jump without momentarily returning to normal space so the NAVCOMP could check its true position and calculate the next leg of the journey. But that didn’t mean that one had to travel in a straight line. “Why transit Ramanthian space?” the naval officer demanded. “Why not go around it?”
“Sure,” the smuggler replied with a shrug. “But doing so will tack at least three days onto the trip . . . Is that okay?”
“No,” Posson answered reluctantly. “It isn’t.”
“Okay,” then,” Jackson said cheerfully, “stand by.”
The Ghost vanished thirty-six seconds later.
Dawn brought rain. Not a downpour, but a steady drizzle, that thickened the already-humid air and turned the already-soft trail to mud. Bravo Company had been assigned to the drag position, which meant that Santana and his troops had the opportunity to stand under a cluster of trees and watch as their fellow legionnaires and most of the town’s civilians left Savas Prime for the north.
Alpha, Charlie, and Delta Companies went first, followed by a long column of civilians. In spite of twelve RAVs, which carried the bulk of their supplies and equipment, the legionnaires were still burdened with either seventy-five-pound packs or individual brain boxes, plus the life-support equipment required to maintain them.
Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell Page 16
