Heaven's Devils si-1

by William C. Dietz

  Raynor caught an hour of guard duty that night, which sucked because his watch was a “splitter,” meaning that he had to get up in the middle of the night and then go back to bed again. But at least the watch was uneventful. He was able to get back to sleep without any difficulty, and felt reasonably rested when he got up in the morning. Then it was time to clean up, eat some rations, and reboard the trucks.

  The sun was little more than a yellow bruise in a gray sky. The air was warm and humid, hinting that it might rain later in the day, and Raynor could feel his undershirt stick to his back as he followed Harnack up onto the truck. The vehicle had been left running, and for no good reason insofar as Raynor could see, especially given the fuel shortage back home. That pissed him off, but he lacked enough rank to do anything about it.

  Having been cleared for departure, the trucks rolled onto the busy highway for what promised to be another boring day. One of the marines had a beat-up media box loaded with a selection of Rilian techno riffs, which he proceeded to play full blast, so that the vocals and the backbeat merged with natural sound to create what amounted to a soundtrack for the trip.

  At some point it began to rain, but not that hard, so the marines elected to leave the side panels up even though that meant getting sprayed by vehicles headed in the opposite direction. The convoy entered a verdant valley, where mounds of burned-out rubble marked what had once been profitable moss farms.

  Were the farmers still alive? And living in refugee camps? Or had they been killed? There was no way to know, and Raynor was thinking about his parents, when the first Kel-Morian Hellhound dropped through the overcast and opened fire. A truck exploded, another ran into the fireball, and somebody began to scream.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “UNN’s four-part documentary series The Price of War has been pulled from the air by military censors. Called ‘derogatory, dishonest, and unpatriotic’ by the True Flag Forum, the series attempted to show a clear perspective on the lives lost during the Kel-Morian engagement. Preston Shale, president of UNN, will hold a press conference this afternoon.”

  Max Speer, Evening Report for UNN September 2488

  THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  There were three enemy aircraft in all. They skimmed along no more than a hundred and fifty feet off of the highway, firing as they came. Nose cannons spewed beams of coherent radiation at the tubby transports even as rockets leapt off their wing racks and wove in for the kill. Some struck their intended targets and some missed. The resulting explosions sent columns of debris soaring into the air.

  By a stroke of good luck, truck two, which Raynor and his buddies were riding in, was spared during the first pass and he found himself on his feet yelling, “Get out! Run like hell! Take cover!”

  The Hellhounds pulled up, flew a lazy circle around the far side of the valley, and turned north again. Raynor and the rest of the marines were crouched in a neighboring field at that point, weapons raised, firing madly. “Lead them!” Raynor shouted, as he remembered the lessons learned in boot camp, but knew the likelihood of bringing one of the flyers down was next to nothing.

  A succession of explosions marched up the highway as the KM pilots strafed the motionless convoy for a second time and a storm of small arms fire converged on them from both sides of the road. Raynor heard shouts of joy as the second Hellhound in line staggered, produced a thin trail of black smoke, and was forced to break away. The marines hadn’t brought the craft down, but they had inflicted enough damage to send it limping toward home, with the other Hellhounds providing cover.

  The entire battle consumed just minutes, but destroyed two trucks and damaged a third. The fourth vehicle, the one loaded with gear, was untouched. Surprisingly, given the extent of the destruction, casualties were limited to one KIA and two WIAs.

  Because the marines were replacements, and hadn’t yet been integrated into regular companies at Fort Howe, they didn’t have their own command structure with them. The sole surviving driver, Corporal Hawkes, took charge and got on the horn to the nearest source of potential help, which was an outpost designated as Firebase Zulu. His face was expressionless as he listened to a series of profanity-laced orders. Then when the download was over, he nodded. “Roger that, sir … I’ll get things going. Over.”

  Hawkes’s first task was to choose three temporary squad leaders, which he proceeded to do based on what he’d seen from the newbies so far. That was how Raynor wound up in charge of the second squad, which included Harnack, Kydd, and Zander. Hawkes eyed Raynor. “Can you drive a truck?”

  “Yes, Corporal, I can drive just about anything,” Raynor answered honestly.

  “As long as it isn’t a vulture,” Harnack said sotto voce from a few feet away.

  “Good,” the corporal replied. “Use truck four to push one and two off the highway before traffic starts to back up. As for number three, I’m not sure if it’s operational or not. Do we have anyone who knows their way around engines in this group?”

  “I could take a look at it,” Zander offered modestly, and the noncom was quick to take him up on the offer.

  “Great! You do that… . If you can’t get it going, tell Raynor. He’ll push it out of the way. As for everyone else,” Hawkes said as he looked around, “you have ten minutes to round up your B-2 bags if they still exist and get ready for a nice little stroll. Because even if we get truck three running again, there won’t be enough transport for everyone.”

  With his squad in tow Raynor made his way past the still-smoking wreckage of trucks one and two, saw Zander peel off to examine three, and made a beeline for the last vehicle, which was battered but still running. “Hey, Hank!” he yelled, as he swung up into the cab. “It looks like traffic is starting to back up. Take the rest of the squad down the line and tell the vehicles behind us to take ten. And don’t let anyone below the rank of general push past. I need room to maneuver.”

  Harnack looked back, saw a traffic jam that included both military and civilian vehicles and waved an acknowledgment.

  It took half an hour to clear the road, get truck three up and running again, and load twenty marines into the back. Those who were on foot were ordered to report to Firebase Zulu as soon as they could. It was going to be a slog—and those fortunate enough to ride waved cheerfully as their trucks pulled away.

  Altogether thirty-eight men and women were left behind, with nineteen marines to a squad, and Raynor in charge of the entire detachment. The latter being a last-minute decision by Hawkes that came as a surprise to Raynor but to no one else.

  Those who still had B-2 bags had put them aboard the trucks, so all the marines had to carry was their weapons, a full load of ammo, plus first aid kits, canteens, and one box of rations each. With only ten miles to cover, and a solid surface to walk on, Raynor figured the group should be able to reach Firebase Zulu in a few hours.

  Raynor sent two scouts forward. He came next, followed by squads one and two, with Private Phelan bringing up the rear. Once across the highway, the column headed south, facing oncoming traffic so they could jump into the drainage ditch if one of the vehicles came too close.

  The clouds were starting to burn off, the air was warm, and the Snakeback mountain range could be seen off to the southeast. From what he’d heard, Raynor knew it marked the western edge of the disputed zone, which meant the enemy wasn’t far away. I hope I’m not leading these people into a bloodbath, he thought.

  He had a comm, albeit not a very powerful one, which generally produced little more than snatches of guarded conversation, bursts of static, or the yowls that occurred when one side or the other sought to jam communications. So if there was danger ahead, he had no way to confirm it. Raynor worked hard to conceal his anxiety.

  Eventually, after crossing a wooden bridge, Raynor called a halt. It was well past noon, he figured they were at least halfway to their destination, and the riverbank would make a good place to eat and rest. There were the usual complaints when he insisted on sentries, especially
from Harnack, who was dispatched to keep an eye on their western flank.

  Having opened his box of rations, and stashed various components in his pockets to snack on later, Raynor ate his cold entrée while he walked around. That was something he’d seen Red Murphy do back in boot camp. It was a way not only to make himself available to the troops, but to see who had their boots off in order to deal with blisters, and warn groups of marines that “one grenade would kill them all.”

  A few minutes later Raynor found himself next to the highway where one of the sentries was posted. Outside of the intermittent rumblings to the south, it was so quiet that he could talk to the other private without raising his voice. It took a minute for the significance of that to sink in. The reason there wasn’t any noise was that all of the traffic had stopped! In fact, when questioned, the sentry reported that it had been at least fifteen minutes since a vehicle had crossed the bridge.

  Raynor felt a cold fist grab his stomach. The fact that there wasn’t any traffic meant that the highway had been cut off! Probably to the south, where the sounds of battle could be heard. Meanwhile, back behind the column somewhere, the MPs were probably blocking southbound traffic to prevent it from running into Kel-Morian forces farther on down the road. But how far? Beyond Firebase Zulu? Or north of it? With all these unknowns, Raynor feared he might lead the column into a meat grinder.

  He could order them to stay put, of course, or turn back, and no one would blame him given the fact that he wasn’t a real noncom. But he could practically hear his father saying, “Doin’ nothin’ ain’t an option, Son… . It’s always better to be wrong instead of worthless.” And that piece of advice was very much in tune with his own instinct, which was to follow the orders he’d been given and reach Firebase Zulu.

  Raynor felt a renewed sense of urgency, and immediately cut the break short. They were going to have to double-time it down the road. All of them were in good shape, so the run was easy at first as they jogged down the empty highway, ready to take cover at a moment’s notice. And there was a scary moment when the sound of engines was heard and two dropships passed over, clearly headed for the battle that took place to the south.

  As Raynor ran, the comm unit signal cleared and gradually he was able to hear a series of terse but understandable conversations between someone called Zulu-Six and a variety of other people. Was Zulu-Six Firebase Zulu’s commanding officer? Yes, that made sense, and from what Raynor could make out, things weren’t going well. In fact, assuming he understood the situation correctly, two gangs of Kel-Morians had split off from a larger force and were threatening to overrun the outpost.

  Raynor thought about Corporal Hawkes and the marines who had been fortunate enough to ride in a truck, and wondered what they were doing at the moment. Fighting their first battle, probably—assuming they were still alive. War had been entirely theoretical up until that point—situations and tactics that had been described to him at boot camp—but suddenly it was very real.

  Raynor didn’t have a map, but didn’t need one at that point, because as the column rounded a curve and passed between high banks, they could see the firebase atop a low-lying hill. A half-dozen armored personnel carriers were positioned along the bottom edge of the slope, and the weapons mounted on each vehicle were firing up at the bunkers that fronted Firebase Zulu.

  While of a similar size, each vehicle was different, having been pieced together from whatever the KM armorers could lay their hands on at the moment. So some were equipped with reactive armor salvaged from Confederate personnel carriers, while others were protected by sheets of metal that had been welded to their flanks and angled to deflect bullets. They were positioned to protect a siege tank, which was firing uphill and blowing huge chunks out of the revetments above.

  Lower down, the dome-shaped bunkers intended to prevent infantry from charging up the slope were on fire, and two SCVs could be seen trying to extinguish the flames. But others were intact and putting out a heavy volume of fire. They would be critical if the men and women of Firebase Zulu were going to hold on.

  Meanwhile, troops wearing a wild assortment of refurbished CMC armor were battling their way up the hill as fire lashed back and forth. One of the KM soldiers was equipped with a sculpted helmet he had picked up somewhere, armor plates that were bound together with a variety of leather straps, and a bandolier of ammo pouches.

  Raynor couldn’t help but admire the man’s bravery as he paused to wave his comrades forward, only to disappear in a flash of light as a shoulder-launched rocket hit him from behind. The resulting BOOM was nearly lost in the chatter of assault weapons, the steady beat of a gauss cannon, and the dull thump of mortar rounds as they cut unlucky soldiers down. Each death left a red blotch on the face of the hillside.

  “Get off the highway!” Raynor shouted, and waved his troops into the orchard off to the right. Some of the gnarled fruit trees had been shattered by artillery fire during a previous battle, but enough remained to provide cover, and Raynor went person to person until all of the marines were organized into four-man fire teams. Except for Kydd, Harnack, and Zander, that is, who were sent forward to find a path. Was that the right thing to do? Raynor thought so, because it was consistent with what he’d been taught. “Run, think, and shoot.” That’s what Gunnery Sergeant Red Murphy always said. But thinking was the hardest part. What if he was wrong?

  Raynor waited for a break in the comm traffic to announce himself. All transmissions on both sides were automatically scrambled and descrambled. Raynor didn’t have a call sign, so he made one up. “Zulu-Two-Three to Zulu-Six. Over.”

  There was a long pause, followed by a burst of static, and a suspicious voice. “Zulu-who? Over.”

  “Corporal Hawkes can vouch for me,” Raynor replied. “In the meantime this is to let you know that we are half a mile north of the firebase and closing with the KM armor. We will attempt to put some of those personnel carriers out of action. That should bring at least a few of their troops back downhill. So be careful who you shoot at. Over.”

  This time the response was quick and precise. “This is Zulu-Six. I scan you, Two-Three … and I like the way you think. Execute. Over.”

  Harnack, Kydd, and Zander had returned by then and were ready with a report. “We found a path,” Harnack announced. “It leads down the gully in front of us, up along that stone wall, and in behind those outbuildings. The personnel carriers are a stone’s throw beyond that point.”

  “Okay,” Raynor agreed. “You’ll lead us up there. Meanwhile, I want Kydd and Zander to head for what’s left of the farmhouse and set up shop there. Ryk, see how many of the KMs climbing the hillside you can bring down, and don’t worry about your six. Max will take care of that. Right, Max?”

  Zander’s eyes were very bright. He nodded. “Count on it.”

  “All right,” Raynor said. “Get going.”

  The farmhouse was off to the right, where it sat inside what had been a rectangle of trees before some of them were destroyed during an earlier battle. The structure itself had taken a hit, and been partially burned. But half of the second story was still intact—and Kydd knew that was where Raynor wanted him to go. Because from up there his long-barreled rifle would be able to reach all the way up the hillside, to the point where the Kel-Morian guerillas had already destroyed two bunkers plus the SCVs sent out to repair them.

  So time was of the essence as he ran, hunched over, behind the stone wall that ran east to west across the farm, and scrambled up the slope behind the house. He was about to pass through the back door when Zander grabbed hold of his combat harness and jerked him back.

  Then, holding one finger up to his lips, the shorter man went in through the back door, E-9 rifle at the ready. Five seconds passed, followed by two shots, which brought Kydd on the run. The kitchen was empty, but as the sniper entered the hallway beyond, he heard a low whistle, and looked up a staircase to see Zander motioning from above.

  Kydd made his way up the stairs to where a Kel
-Morian soldier lay dead in the middle of a debris-littered hallway. A comm unit rested inches from his fingertips. “He was an observer,” Zander said evenly. “Pick your spot. I’ll be down below making sure that no one sneaks up on you.”

  “Take the comm,” Kydd suggested. “And listen in. Maybe you’ll hear if they’re sending people this way.”

  Zander nodded, scooped the comm up off the floor, and disappeared down the stairs.

  Secure in the knowledge that Zander would cover him, Kydd entered a bedroom and made his way over to a shattered window. Something bit into his knee as he placed it on the floor. A bit of broken glass, most likely, but the cut could be dealt with later.

  The sill was high enough to provide a good rest for the long-barreled rifle, and having already chambered a .50 caliber round, all he had to do was put his eye to the scope and tilt the weapon upward. It was a moment Kydd had given a good deal of thought to in boot camp—because killing a real human being was no small thing. But when he saw the desperation of the scene before him, his doubts faded away.

  A group of Kel-Morians had closed in on the last defensive bunker and one was using a flamethrower to cook the people inside. And those people were Kydd’s people—even if he hadn’t met them before. And the fact that he couldn’t see the KMs’ faces made it that much easier for the sniper to consult the data displayed on his HUD and make some final adjustments before shifting gears.

  The crosshairs settled over the target. Time seemed to slow as Kydd’s right index finger began to squeeze the trigger, then there was the moment of release as the rifle butt kicked his shoulder, and the weapon released a bang so loud it made his ears ring. That was when the heavy slug plowed through the air, Kydd realized he had forgotten to put his earplugs in, and his right hand worked the bolt as if it was operating without input from his brain.