Hanson stepped over to the supine forms, gave each a shot, then started rocking the first one with his foot, a rifle in his face. “Wake up, dude. You’re in a world of hurt.” Hanson smiled down cheerfully. His subject came awake with a cough, opened his eyes, took in the gun muzzle, and did his damndest to roll away. That only put him hard up against the next terrorist’s back. The tech got down and in his face. “Who controls those mines?”
“Martin. He has the codes,” he answered, eager to please.
Efforts to wake Martin only sent the heavyset man from drugged sleep into out cold. “This one’s got a bad heart,” Hanson reported. “He needs a hospital, or we’ll lose him.”
Gunny stooped to go face-to-face with one of the recently awakened sleepers. “Where does Martin have his codes?”
“In his ‘puter. I swear they are.”
The tech patted down Martin and pulled a banged-up and aging wrist computer off him, liberally covered with blood. The tech tried to wipe it clean on his battle suit, but armor was meant to keep blood in, not wipe it away. He ended up wiping it on the couch before trying to turn it on. No activity there.
“He was fingering it when I darted him,” Gunny growled.
“I think he wiped it,” Hanson concluded. Kris had learned long ago that nothing in storage was ever quite gone, not if the right people went after it with patience. She took the computer and slid it into her pouch as she studied the field through the gaping door. Four of her marines were on the other side of a too-live minefield. Kris would risk no one now that Edith was safe. In theory, her techs could clear the field, but mines had no friends, and Kris was not about to see one of her crew hurt, even if a mom and dad were airborne, headed this way.
“This is Ensign Longknife. I have no way of turning off the land mines. Anyone on net have any assets for clearing mines?” Several police nets gave her a negative. As Kris mulled her unacceptable options, her net boomed.
“This is Captain Thorpe of the Typhoon. We’re inbound, thirty seconds out from the hunting lodge. We’ll take care of that minefield. I suggest everyone dirtside get under cover.”
The troops around Kris exchanged puzzled glances.
Hanson shook his head. “The captain ain’t gonna do that. Please, somebody tell me he ain’t gone and done that. My gear’s gonna be all over the place.”
“He’s thirty seconds out. I think he’s already done it.”
Kris shook her head. “He wouldn’t. Not with me dirtside.”
“I think he has, ma’ am,” Corporal Li chuckled.
“Let’s do what the skipper said,” Gunny growled. “It’s gonna get noisy and messy hereabouts in a few seconds.”
While her troops got their prisoners headed for the back room, Kris made a quick call to her fire team and ordered them back…way back. Then she eyed the brightening sky through the front window, eager to see what was coming. The manual said the smart metal of the Kamikaze-class ships could restructure themselves in several different ways. She herself had changed the Typhoon from general travel to orbital mission, but that was done all the time. To change a starship into an air-capable vehicle…now, that would take some rearranging.
The clear blue sky let go with a high-pitched scream.
Kris spotted a white contrail off to the southwest, headed her way in the morning light. She wondered how you made a house safe when a starship landed next to it; not an evolution covered by any book she’d read at OCS. “Gunny, pop the windows out, break the glass before it shatters.”
“Right, ma’am.”
While her team went rapidly through the house, Kris scrounged several blankets and wrapped Edith in them. “There’s going to be a big noise. Don’t worry. I’ve got you. Nothing can hurt you now.” The child looked up at Kris with wide, accepting eyes; then, if it was possible, she snuggled closer.
Kris stationed herself next to a window to keep an eye on things both inside and out. The roar outside went from loud to painful; Kris lowered her faceplate. Looking like a winged bird from hell, the Typhoon was aiming for the field in front of the lodge, coming in at about 400 knots. Half its engines were pointed down now. The overpressure out there was going to be nothing short of hellish. Kris held Edith tightly against the wall, assuming that her cowboy of a captain had calculated the full impact of the ship and mines on the house. What if he hadn’t? Kris had a vision of the cabin’s giant logs reduced to kindling and prayed the skipper knew what he was doing.
“See, didn’t I tell you?” One of her marines pointed. “Don’t it look like a Klingon Bird-of-Prey? Right out of the comic.”
The Typhoon wasn’t a hundred meters up when the first mine blew. Its explosion would have gone unnoticed in the racket, but Kris spotted the splash of water and mud that didn’t fit the regular air flow from the Typhoon’s engine blast. Then another and another mine added its pop to the display. Water, mud, bits of vegetation, and rocks went flying every which way, none even close to the Typhoon. Kris had seen enough. “Everybody down.”
Reluctantly, her troops obeyed. With her back to the log wall, all Kris could think of was the mess the heat was making of the tundra. Summer had softened the top dozen centimeters or so. Now, hot rocket exhaust was digging two or three meters into the frozen earth, melting everything, turning it into a slurry and throwing it far and wide.
Kris hoped whoever owned this place wouldn’t mind. If someone got stuck doing an after-the-fact environmental impact statement and mitigation plan, Kris knew who was high on Captain Thorpe’s list for the duty.
Outside, the scream of rockets changed to a settling whine; Kris risked a glance. The ground steamed and roiled in a broad slash as the Typhoon settled onto a dozen thick landing gears well away from the last mine. Police choppers would be wanting to land next. Kris turned to her team. “Gunny, have the techs police up the area. If there are any mines left, explode them. Start with the veranda.” The two specialists had their satchel of techno tricks out, checking the door before they opened it.
“Here’s one.”
“Here’s another,” came back to her before they’d gone two paces.
“Crew”—she waved at her marines—“let’s gather for a prayer vigil in the back room while our mends bless our dear departing mines out front.”
“Yeah,” a corporal grinned, “a mine is a terrible thing to waste.”
“Keep that up, and these prisoners are gonna sue us for marine brutality.”
“Where’s my mommy?” Edith put in.
“She’s coming, honey. Just a few more minutes.” Kris sat Edith on the kitchen counter, while Gunny kept the prisoners in another room. Kris pulled her ration pack out, rummaged through it for a candy bar, and gave it to the girl.
Edith studied it, her mouth twisted in a reflection of the conflict within. “My mommy told me never to take candy from strangers.”
“Honey, I’m not a stranger.” Kris laughed. “I’m a marine.”
“Hard Corps,” Corporal Li agreed.
“All the way,” the other trigger pullers chimed in.
Edith must have agreed. She attacked the candy bar with zeal. Kris rummaged through the rest of her ration pouch, hunting for anything else the girl might like. The work out front was regularly punctuated by booms as exposed mines were set off by charges. Kris took several calls from police helicopters asking when a landing pad might be ready.
The eighty-member crew of the Typhoon had no explosives experts to contribute to the two marine specialists, much to Captain Thorpe’s disgust, so everyone waited while Kris’s two worked.
As the booms got farther from the house, Kris took Edith back to the front room. From the door they watched the marines at work. Sniffers picked up the scent of explosives in the swirling mist of steam and exhaust. The marines would toss a package of explosives at the exposed mine, back off, and detonate their charge. That usually was enough to explode the mine as well. The few that didn’t respond to the treatment were marked and left for later handling
by a real bomb squad. This informal approach to field clearing finally yielded a large enough space that Kris ordered one specialist to drop back and set up a transponder for the first chopper.
Two minutes later, three rotorcraft orbited the clearing; Kris ordered the mine hunt to pause. One chopper swooped in to quickly deposit a team of explosives experts before lifting off again. These volunteers from a local mining consortium turned to helping the marines. As soon as the pad was clear, a second helicopter flared in for a landing without asking permission.
There was no question who it brought. A woman and man bolted from it. Edith let out a whoop, and Kris almost lost her. Kris held on, trying not to fight, and amazed at how strong a six-year-old was when she wanted to be. The woman Edith’s scream identified as “Mommy, Mommy,” raced across the field, slipping and sliding until she was covered with mud, and dashed up the steps to the lodge, the man not two steps behind her. The child that before had seemed bolted to Kris’s hip flowed into her mother’s arms. There were tears and hugs and all kinds of blubbering as the three of them lost themselves in each other.
Kris had cried her tears; she turned back to the lodge, quickly found her prisoners under Gunny’s less-than-gentle care, and got them organized to move out. When next Kris stepped onto the veranda, the rejoined family was where she’d left them. A large chopper now occupied the single helipad, its engines spooling down as it disgorged a dozen men whose uniforms and hard eyes identified them as cops.
Kris edged the family to the far corner of the veranda, then brought her prisoners out under heavy guard. The three, still locked in a hug, spared no notice for the kidnappers. The leader of the police force took in the handcuffed walking four and the half-carried fifth with a hard glare, as if already measuring them for coffins.
“There’s a dead one on the back porch. We need to exchange any paperwork,” Kris asked, “or do I just turn them over to you?”
“I’ll take them off your hands, ma’am. You want paperwork, I can scare you up some. We’re kind of light on that stuff out here,” he said, not taking his eyes from the prisoners as they were quickly marched off. “I understand one of them needs a doc.”
“The wobbly one,” Kris pointed out.
“He’ll make it,” the cop growled.
“Well, they say he’s the boss man,” Kris said with a wave at the other prisoners. “I’d like to hear what he has to say.”
“He’ll be talking real soon.” Now the cop grinned. “I suspect we can get them all talking. Get them glad to talk.”
That left Kris wondering what other parts of the Society’s Declaration on Human Rights Sequim hadn’t gotten around to ratifying yet. Kris had other problems. “Gunny, have your squad police up our gear. Otherwise, don’t disturb the crime scene.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he saluted.
Kris turned to Corporal Li. “Our squad will retrieve the LACs. I want to personally do the breakdown on our boat’s commlink. Nobody touches it before me. Got it?”
“In spades, ma’am. No bloody squid’s gonna get by with sloppy work that damn near fries me and mine.” It was nice when leaders took a personal interest in their people’s work.
Kris did a slow look around, found everything under somebody else’s control, and followed her corporal.
It took Kris a while to collect the troopers who had provided fire support from the woods; they’d gotten way back when the ship came over. With them, she headed for the Typhoon. At the gangway, a corpsman was waiting to take over the limper. Right beside the medic stood Captain Thorpe himself, grinning like a pirate as he surveyed the results of his landing approach.
“Damn good, if I do say so myself.”
“Yes, sir,” Kris agreed. “I need to pick up the LACs. Can I sign for a hovercraft?”
“Your marines too lazy, Ensign, for another walk in that swamp you took them through?”
“No, sir. Just thought you might want everyone back aboard before the sun gets too high,” she answered. If she had gone straight for the landers, he’d be damning her for wasting time making mud pies. Kris was getting used to being damned if she did and damned when she didn’t.
“Take number two hover, and make it quick,” Thorpe ordered, then added as if as an afterthought, “Well done, Ensign.”
Kris saluted and led her squad back aboard. No surprise, turning the Typhoon into a landing ship had shuffled a lot around inside. However, Nelly quickly showed Kris where Hovercraft Two was docked. Kris used a second gangway to slip back out; no need going through Thorpe’s idea of motivation twice. She found the right patch of skin, gave the order over the ship’s net, and watched as a hatch slowly opened, lowering the hovercraft from its travel bay.
In another three minutes, Kris had checked it out and mounted up her team. The corporal drove, Kris seated next to him. In the backseats, the marines let loose with whoops and shouts as they shot away from the Typhoon.
As the corporal dodged trees and bounced over rocks, and the celebration in back got louder, he leaned toward Kris. “Thanks for getting us down, ma’am. I figured us for fried. I don’t know many officers who could have done what you did. Getting us down was about all I was hoping for. Getting us down where we could help that little girl. Well, ma’ am, you may not be a marine, but I’ll Semper Fi with you anytime.”
“Thanks,” was all Kris could manage. Father, you are wrong. A won election isn’t the greatest feeling in the world. Kris doubted she’d ever feel more pride than she felt at this moment from her subordinate’s praise. Better than medals any day.
The LACs were where they’d left, them. While three marines loaded Gunny’s in the bay of the hovercraft, Kris and Li gave their own lander a once-over. The commlink was still as dead as horse cavalry. “Go easy,” Kris said as the three troopers lifted this one much more gently and deposited it in Hover Two.
“Yeah, be a bleeding shame to knock what’s wrong with it back right,” one private observed. Kris chuckled; just because they were marines didn’t mean they were dumb… just, well, marines. The trip back was slower. By the time they reached the Typhoon, a cargo hatch was open in the ship’s skin, so they drove right into the loading bay. Tommy was waiting, test kit in hand.
“Ready to tear into this piece of crap?” Kris asked, as she dismounted.
“Nope,” he said, relaxing against the bay door, “thought I’d get some air.” He waved his tester. “Which LAC was yours?”
Kris had the marines unload it, then dismissed them. Tommy went straight to work. Kris found her locker and doffed her drop suit. She would have loved a shower but had no idea where one was in the reorganized ship. She settled for putting on yesterday’s khakis. As she finished changing, Tommy waved her over to gaze with him into the innards of her cockpit. “What can you tell me about my bum commlink?” she asked.
“That my heart quit beating when you went off-line,” he said.
Kris wasn’t sure if that was just Santa Maria’s Irish talking, or if Tommy was actually flirting. She dodged the question by ignoring him.
He went on, “There’s a recall out on the commlink. Subcontractor got a hold of a batch of nonspec parts, but they initially passed inspection, both his and the contractor… or so the paperwork says. Let me check this one.” With the cover off, the inner workings of the cockpit stood bare. Kris didn’t need Tommy’s magic tester to find the problem; the circuit board he pulled showed scorched plastic.
“Any way to know if that’s just dumb luck or if someone tinkered with the board?” Kris asked, giving full rein to the paranoia she’d learned at her father’s knee.
Tommy squinted one eye as he glanced her way. “Who’d tinker with it? It’s depot-level maintenance.”
Kris sighed, stood, and leaned against a closed locker. She eyed the parts laid out before her, trying to make sense of what she saw. Had a random distribution of bum parts almost killed her and her marines? And then saved them!
“What’re you thinking?” Tommy asked, squattin
g beside her.
“That I ought to debrief my team,” she said to no one in particular. “Didn’t one of the books at OCS say something about critiquing an action, that talking things through will soften post-traumatic stress if anything stressful happened? Think almost frying on entry qualifies?”
“Grandma Chin and the ancestors would,” Tommy agreed.
“Thing is, I’m feeling a tad stressed myself. Real soon, my father and I need to have a long talk about the procurement practices of his government,” she said. Then something hit her. “If that damn part was on recall, why hadn’t it been replaced?”
“We didn’t have a spare. Squadron Six’s supply officer promised me a replacement in three days. We sortied on day two.”
“Luck? Right. You know, Tommy, I think I need to do something to change my luck. Any suggestions?”
“Have you tried leaving milk out for the little people?”
“I think I’ll have a beer myself,” she muttered. “They can have any I spill.”
“Good by me,” the leprechaun beside her grinned.
Before Kris could say anything more, both their commlinks went off, doing their level best to beep their way through the bugle notes of Officer’s Call. Captain Thorpe had a very old notion of military decorum and motivation.
Kris and Tommy hit both their commlinks at the same moment, so they were treated to the same message, in stereo.
“Sequim’s general manager requests the presence of all ship’s officers at a reception being given at his residence at nineteen thirty local time. The Typhoon will lift for Sequim’s main space port at seventeen hundred local. Uniform of the day will be dress white.”
Kris took a whiff of herself, decided she didn’t like it, and went hunting for her quarters. With a little luck, her dress whites wouldn’t look too bad after being trundled all over as the ship remade itself. Somehow, Kris suspected, her luck had been busy elsewhere this morning.
Chapter Five
Kris was right. Though her locker and wardrobe had managed to move themselves into the stateroom that Kris now shared with Chief Bo, Kris had no idea where the contents of her desk and lockbox were. Hopefully, they’d show up tomorrow when the ship got back into orbit. As expected, Kris’s uniforms looked like they’d been put through a wringer. “The girls have an iron in the main room,” Chief Bo said as Kris surveyed the wreckage.
Kris Longknife: Mutineer Page 5
