McKee was shocked to hear how much had been lost but managed to reply with the brevity that the Legion’s noncoms were known for. “Roger that. We’ll take care of it.”
The light had faded by then, and complete darkness was only minutes away. That suited McKee just fine. The Naa had good night vision, but the legionnaires would be able to see even better thanks to the technology they had, and that could make an important difference.
There was only one way to tackle the mission, and that was head-on. But rather than go in as a group, or in a column, McKee ordered the T-1s to spread out. Then, on her command, they surged forward.
The response was immediate. The Naa opened fire. But with four targets to shoot at, they were forced to divide their fire accordingly. That, plus speed and a series of zigzag movements, gave the legionnaires a chance. And within a matter of seconds they were behind the enemy’s front line and shooting at the heat blobs beyond. In some ways it was better than fighting during the day because the targets were easier to “see.”
The warriors in the front line could turn, of course, thereby exposing their backs to Jenkins and his soldiers, but if they fired, there was a good chance of hitting their own people. So the volume of fire decreased as the squad raced south.
Then they were there, cutting down the warriors working on the half-assembled catapult while dropping white phosphorus grenades all around the wooden weapon. As the devices went off, they produced a great deal of heat and set the catapult ablaze.
McKee felt a sense of satisfaction as she ordered her people to turn and head back. And that was when Clay stepped on a mine. Odds were that it had been left by retreating legionnaires rather than planted by the Naa. Not that it made any difference. The explosion blew the cyborg’s left leg off and Hagen fell with him. It was the kind of opportunity the Naa had been hoping for, and they attacked.
CHAPTER: 18
We’re surrounded. That simplifies things.
MARINE GENERAL “CHESTY” PULLER
At the Battle of the Chosin Reservoir
Standard year 1950
PLANET ALGERON
“Jaggi! Shinn!” McKee shouted. “Grab Clay’s arms. Get him out of here. Sykes, we’ll take the four slot. Hose the bastards down!”
The reaction was swift as the T-1s moved into position on both sides of Clay and lifted him up onto his remaining foot. Hagen was still strapped in. But judging from the way the heat blob was slumped over, McKee knew he was unconscious or dead.
She heard Sykes grunt as a burst of slugs smacked into his chest. That meant they had been fired by one of the warriors positioned between them and the trench. Then, rather than fire back, Sykes turned and exposed McKee to the incoming fire. A bullet struck her between the shoulder blades. Her body armor stopped it, but the impact knocked the air out of her lungs and left her momentarily speechless.
So she fired a burst at Sykes’s right foot as a way to get his attention. It produced a burst of profanity. “That’s the second time,” McKee said, having found her voice. “If you do it again, I’ll pull your brain box and drop it in the shitter. Do you read me?”
There was no reply, but Sykes fired a burst at the spot where the Naa had been and, having received no reaction, turned his attention to other targets. They fell one after another as Jaggi, Shinn, and Clay approached the trench. Someone, either Jenkins or Hasbro, had ordered the robots to lay a metal plate across the ditch. That made it possible for the uninjured cyborgs to cross the gap without being forced to jump. Something which would have been difficult, if not impossible, given the burden they carried. As soon as the other T-1s were clear, it was Sykes’s turn. The ground pounders opened fire seconds later, and the standoff continued.
They arrived in the compound ten minutes later. For the moment, it was out of reach insofar as the Naa were concerned, so the lights had been left on. Once they arrived, McKee jumped to the ground and went to check on Hagen. It didn’t take a medical degree to see that he was dead. McKee bit her lip to keep from crying as she and Kyle freed the body and carried it out to where a long row of dead legionnaires lay.
Unfortunately, they had neither the time nor the parts required to repair Clay. So all McKee could do was have the other T-1s move him to a fighting position on the west side of the compound. A spot where he and his Storm fifty could make an important difference if the FOB came under direct attack.
Then it was time for what remained of the squad to rest and, in the case of the bio bods, grab a quick bite to eat. The sound of intermittent firing could be heard in the distance, but it wasn’t enough to keep McKee awake. All she had to do was lie down on top of a sleep sack. She was unconscious five seconds later.
McKee awoke to see that Larkin was standing over her. “Break’s over,” he announced. “The major asked for you.”
McKee swore, rolled to her feet, and looked around. “Where is he?”
“Top of the slide area.”
“Okay, round everyone up, and I’ll meet you there.”
As Larkin left, McKee took the time necessary to brush her teeth and visit the latrine before making her way to the top of the slide area. Hasbro was there, as were Dero and Vickers. McKee noticed that the civilian was armed. And, judging from the way she held the AXE, quite familiar with firearms.
But Vickers and the Bureau of Missing Persons were a moot point at the moment. Because as McKee looked out over the desert, she saw that the western tribes had not only arrived, but merged with their brethren to form a vast army. It consisted of thousands upon thousands of warriors. With few exceptions, they were clumped together into circular formations that consisted of males from a common village, or a group of villages, all unified under a single chief.
Most were mounted on dooths. So many animals that the morning air was heavy with the rank odor they produced, as well as the smell of smoke from hundreds of cook fires, all contributing to the brown haze that hung over the seething multitude. Colorful pennants flew here and there, light glinted off razor-sharp spear points, and McKee saw that a number of catapults had been brought in from the west. All facing the mesa. She felt a strange emptiness in her stomach. She knew the Legion would fight. But doing so would constitute little more than a brave gesture. “So,” she said, “what are they waiting for?”
Hasbro lowered his binoculars and pointed. “Take a look . . . They’re toying with us. Or him.”
McKee accepted the glasses and brought them up to her eyes. The scene below seemed to jump forward. That was when she saw the stake that had been planted in the ground, the crude platform behind it, and the man who stood with a warrior to either side of him. McKee recognized him right away. Captain Wesley Heacox. Most of his uniform had been cut away, and the Naa were about to lower him onto the sharpened stake. Hasbro said, “Corporal, take your shot.”
McKee looked over to where a legionnaire was sprawled behind a bipod-mounted .50-caliber sniper’s rifle. The range was long but well short of the record for such shots.
As McKee brought the glasses back up, she heard the report. The Naa were holding Heacox over the stake by then. The bullet struck his chest, went through, and killed the Naa standing behind him. The warrior fell backward off the platform, and the body produced a puff of dust as it hit the ground.
That was followed by a moment of absolute silence while people on both sides absorbed what had occurred. Then, as if controlled by a single mind, the Naa uttered a primal roar. “Uh-oh,” Larkin said. “I think they’re pissed.”
“Okay,” Hasbro said, as the sea of warriors began to stir. “This is it. Let’s make the bastards pay.”
McKee was about to mount up when Dero said, “Look! Over there!” And pointed to the northwest. McKee turned, saw two dots, and heard the faint sound of aircraft engines. Fly-forms! Finally, the legionnaires were going to get the air support they had been promised.
Hasbro was in radio contact with the cy
borgs seconds later and, after a brief conversation, turned to the others. “There’s just the two of them . . . And no transports. But something is better than nothing.”
And something was better than nothing. As became apparent when the attack aircraft circled the area. That alone was sufficient to forestall the attack on the mesa. Thousands of riders wheeled, collided with other bands of warriors, and even went so far as to trade blows. Meanwhile, others fired up at the fly-forms, hoping for a lucky hit. The gunfire was contagious and quickly spread. The result sounded like thousands of firecrackers all going off at once. But what goes up must come down and some of the multitude were struck by falling bullets.
Having surveyed the scene below, the pilots made their first run. Their fly-forms were designed for close ground support rather than aerial combat. So they were slower than aerospace fighters and carried a different kind of armament. As their bomb-bay doors opened, twenty-five-hundred-pound bombs spilled out of each aircraft. That added up to forty “fives,” as the pilots referred to them, all landing among the fully exposed enemy. The results were horrific to look at.
McKee had never seen anything like it. Enormous columns of dirt soared skyward as if pulled there by some invisible force. Once in the air, they were transparent, and she could see bodies, and parts of bodies whirling upwards, only to fall into craters that opened like graves. Explosions marched across the land, leaving nothing but dead and mangled bodies in their wake. Warriors lay like broken dolls, dooths screamed as they thrashed on the blood-soaked ground, and the thunder continued to roll until every bomb had fallen.
That was sickening enough, but the fly-forms weren’t finished. Each carried two rocket pods, one under each wing, which meant they could fire a total of twenty-four missiles at the ground. “Take the catapults out,” Hasbro ordered, as he looked out over the mayhem. “Get ’em all. Over.”
The fly-forms wheeled, came in low, and went catapult hunting. Some rockets hit dead on, blowing the machines to smithereens and sending splinters of wood in every direction. But even those that missed did damage since each catapult was typically surrounded by an escort of ten to fifteen riders. When the run was over, McKee counted seven catapults that had been destroyed or badly damaged. And that was crucial because, primitive though they were, the devices could still mete out damage to the FOB if the Naa could move them close enough.
At that point, McKee thought the fly-forms had accomplished their mission, but the pilots were clearly determined to use the full array of weapons at their disposal, and that included the rotary guns mounted in the nose of each attack ship. So they circled again and began to fire. Each aircraft could put out more than four thousand rounds of 30 × 173 mm ammo per minute. The big shells reduced riders and their dooths to little more than bloody confetti as they plowed twin furrows across the desert.
But in spite of the chaos, and the suicidal nature of what they were about to do, three Naa warriors had taken positions side by side. They were armed with Legion-issue rocket launchers which rested on their shoulders. And as the first fly-form flew straight at them, they fired.
Two of the missiles flew straight and true. One entered an air intake and the other struck a wing. The results were spectacular. As the wing came off, and an engine exploded, the plane began to corkscrew. It hit the ground hard, tumbled end for end, and disappeared from sight as it fell into a gully. Seconds later, a fireball rose, burned itself out, and vanished.
“I’ll get him,” McKee said. “If he’s alive, we can’t leave him out there.”
“And I’m going, too,” Larkin added. “She needs supervision.”
“No, you aren’t,” Hasbro responded. “One T-1 and one bio bod. That’s all I’m willing to risk. The Naa will be back—and we’ll need every gun we have.”
“What about the second fly-form?” Dero wanted to know. “Can it fly cover for McKee?”
Hasbro held a short conversation with the surviving pilot and turned back to the others. “That’s affirmative. But he can only stay for thirty minutes. Then he’ll be low on fuel. So don’t screw around, McKee . . . Out and back. As fast as you can.”
“Roger that, sir.”
As McKee turned to go, her eyes came into brief contact with Vickers’s. They were dark, like space itself, and equally empty of life.
A line of fighting positions had been established at the top of the slide area. McKee paused next to a crate full of grenades, took two, and spotted two blocks of D-6. Just the thing for destroying the wreck should that be necessary. Then, after dropping the explosives into the ready bags located on either side of her fighting position, McKee climbed up onto Sykes’s back. As she made some final preparations, she spoke to the cyborg over the intercom. “I should have asked you if you were up for this.”
“I am,” Sykes replied.
McKee remembered the two occasions on which Sykes had either been negligent or engaged in an effort to get her killed. There hadn’t been time to discuss the incidents with him. And what could he say if she did? Either way, guilty or not, he would claim the mistakes were just that. Mistakes. She could take another borg, of course—but what if Sykes was innocent? It would look like she didn’t trust him, and how would that affect the squad? Especially in a combat situation. No, she would stick with Sykes and hope for the best. “All right,” McKee said. “Let’s go.”
The Naa were scattered, and too intimidated by the remaining fly-form to gather in one place, but there were a lot of them, and most were on the move. Some were chasing the aircraft and firing at it, while others were searching for missing comrades or just milling around. But all of them represented a danger, and McKee was extremely conscious of that as Sykes arrived on the desert floor and began to pick up speed. “Don’t run in a straight line,” she instructed. “They’ll figure out where we’re headed soon enough. But there’s no reason to do their thinking for them.”
So Sykes took a circuitous path that led past the platform where Heacox still lay, around a large outcropping of rock, and onto some hardpan. A group of riders spotted the T-1 and moved to intercept it. But before they could close with the legionnaires, the fly-form swooped in to protect them. Cannon shells cut a bloody swath through the Naa and added even more carcasses to the body-strewn battlefield. Had it not been for their guardian angel, McKee knew that she would have been dead within a matter of minutes.
Sykes leaped over a dead dooth, skirted a large boulder, and went straight for the gully where the fly-form had disappeared. McKee braced herself as the T-1 skidded down the slope into the dry riverbed below. There were pockets of snow where the sun’s rays couldn’t reach and signs that a group of Naa had been camped in the gully until very recently.
Sykes turned north, and moments later, they rounded a bend and saw the wreckage straight ahead. McKee was aghast. The fly-form looked like a pile of burned-out scrap metal. Yes, the pilot’s brain box had been built to take a lot of punishment—but could anything survive a crash like the one in front of her? It didn’t seem likely, but she had to make sure.
McKee hit the harness release, jumped to the ground, and hurried over to the still-smoking wreck. Engines roared as the other fly-form passed overhead. She was extremely conscious of the fact that time was ticking away as she climbed up onto the remaining wing and followed it to the point where the cockpit would be on a conventional aircraft.
The fuselage just aft of that point had been blackened by fire but the RESCUE decal and arrow were still legible. That gave McKee reason to hope as she pulled the access hatch open. Once that had been accomplished, it was a simple matter to grab the red handle, turn it, and pull the box free. The name stenciled on the side was TREY PADOVICH.
McKee was supporting the metal container with both arms as she turned. And there was Sykes. The cyborg was standing twenty feet away with the Storm fifty pointed at her chest. “Put the box down and take three steps back.”
McKee f
elt a sense of disappointment mixed with anger. The signs had been there, but she had been hopeful nevertheless. “Why?”
“You know why,” Sykes said. “You’re wearing a whole lot of classified information around your neck. Stuff you aren’t supposed to have. It took a long time to hack it, but I did. Avery108411. That’s the access code. Were you part of the team that assassinated Governor Mason? Beats me . . . And I don’t care. Now, put the box down.”
“Or?”
“Or I’ll take you off at the knees.”
That was it . . . Sykes didn’t want to fire at the box. Because it would mean killing a fellow borg? Because he’d be a hero if he brought Padovich back? Or both? It didn’t matter. McKee placed the brain box on the ground and planned the next move. It would have to be fast—and it would have to be smooth.
The AXE shifted as she bent over and fell. She let it go, jerked her arm out of the sling, and threw herself sideways. Sykes fired and .50-caliber slugs tore up the patch of dirt where she’d been standing.
The remote was in the center pocket of her chest protector. As McKee came to a stop, she fumbled with the pocket flap and pulled the device free. Sykes was turning toward her. A curtain of soil flew up into the air as she pushed a protective cover out of the way and thumbed the button beneath.
The electronic signal triggered one of the demo charges. And when it exploded, the grenades in both ready bags went off as well, followed by the second block of D-6. The result was a series of overlapping explosions that destroyed the upper part of Sykes’s body so thoroughly that only his legs remained. They stood upright for a moment, wobbled, and fell.
McKee’s heart was racing, and her breath was coming in short gasps as she tossed the remote aside and went to recover Padovich. That was when a male voice flooded her helmet. “Hammer-Four-Niner-Three to Charlie-Eight. What happened? Over.”
Andromeda’s Choice Page 33
