Heaven’s Devils

by William C. Dietz

“For the money,” Tychus growled. “Some rotten bastard knew the KMs were coming—and knew he could blame the loss on them once the battle was over. Come on… . We have work to do.”

  The other four members of the squad had engaged the grunts by then, and as the two men rounded the east side of the guard hut, heavy fire was sleeting back and forth. Then Tychus saw one of the enemy soldiers jerk as if slapped in the face. The Kel-Morian fell over backward as a second .50 caliber slug smashed through his protective visor, which was made of cheap, low-grade plasteel. “That’s some nice shooting,” Tychus observed loudly as he fired a short burst. “Who’s the kid with the long gun, anyway?”

  “That depends on who you ask,” Raynor replied, as one of Ward’s rockets struck the second grunt and blew the man in half. “But the kid answers to ‘Kydd.’”

  “We’re taking fire from the south!” Harnack shouted, as he began to back toward the loading dock. A long tongue of fire swept the area where the dead marines lay—cremating both them and half a dozen Kel-Morian troops.

  Then, as Harnack continued to pan the igniter back and forth, he accidentally swept it across the back end of a fuel truck. Ward shouted, “Watch out!” but it was too late, as the tanker exploded. There was a throaty BOOM as a chunk of flying metal cut two enemy soldiers in half, a column of flames shot straight up into the air, and a wave of fiery fuel flowed out to lap around Kel-Morian ankles.

  To conserve on weight, the KMs weren’t wearing hardskins, and they began to scream as they ran in circles. Zander put them out of their misery with a series of well-placed grenades as Harnack stared in wonder. “Did I do that? Holy crap, I’m in love.”

  Meanwhile, as Kydd and Ward turned to help their buddies defend against the new threat, Tychus was pulling a door open and jerking the driver out of a truck. He was a civilian, and a terrified one at that, which offered support to the theory that somebody was not only stealing weapons but colluding with the enemy to do so!

  Raynor had taken possession of the other truck by then even as the firefight grew more intense. So he slid behind the controls and sounded the air horn, in hopes that the rest of the squad would take notice. They did, and Kydd and Zander rushed to board Raynor’s vehicle, while Harnack and Ward piled into the one that Tychus was driving.

  Then, as spikes shattered the windscreen and perforated the front hood, Raynor pulled away. He had a sick feeling that they weren’t going to make it. But then, suddenly, all the firing stopped. It seemed choreographed, as if someone wanted the trucks to escape. Someone who didn’t know they had been taken over.

  Raynor thought it best to find a safe place to park it before rejoining the battle, but Tychus clearly had other ideas as he passed on the left, and his voice sounded over the truck’s radio. “This is Echo-Six to base command… . The enemy looted the armory and my squad and I are giving chase. Over.”

  That was a partial truth at best, but Raynor never got a chance to complain, as a second voice was heard. “This is Hotel-One to Echo-Six… . Break it off… . I repeat, break it off and report to rally point seven. That’s an order. Over.”

  Then came Tychus’s reply. “You’re breaking up, Hotel-One. Repeat, breaking up. Will try again in five. Over.”

  At that point Raynor realized that he and his fellow squad members had been hijacked by their new sergeant and were being drawn into a dangerous combination of criminal activity and dereliction of duty. That went against everything he had been taught to believe in, and that made him feel guilty, not to mention scared.

  On the other hand, there was no question about what he had seen with his own eyes. Confederate marines had been loading the trucks before the attack started. So it appeared as though at least some of the good guys weren’t all that good. And how could they get away with something like that unless somebody higher up was in on it? Truth was, it was hard to tell what was right and wrong anymore.

  Suddenly Raynor could hear his father’s voice ringing in his ears. “We keep working and they keep taking… . It just ain’t right.”

  And it wasn’t right. So, Raynor decided, if I can take something back, and pass it to my family, at least something good will come of this. The battle faded behind them as the trucks passed through a shattered gate. Fifteen minutes later the two-vehicle convoy entered the already devastated suburbs of Whitford. The night was black, the headlights were white, and the highway was gray.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “I used to light fires as a kid. A lot of fires. My folks were always giving me grief about it. They just didn’t understand. It wasn’t pyromania: it was a career move.”

  Private Hank Harnack, 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion, in an interview on Turaxis II July 2488

  FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  Two days had passed since the Kel-Morian rippers had launched their surprise attack on Fort Howe, and as a jitney carried Tychus toward the command center, there was plenty of activity to be seen. Dozens of SCVs were hard at work repairing half-slagged defenses, filling craters, and clearing away debris. Civilian crews had been brought in to help, but there was still plenty left to accomplish.

  The jitney Tychus was riding in was forced to detour around the burned-out wreckage of a Kel-Morian aircraft before continuing on its way. The battle had been far from one-sided, however. More than a hundred of Fort Howe’s marines were wounded or killed, and it was very likely that the base would have been overrun had it not been for some very good luck. The rippers’ commanding officer was killed early on in the battle, a squadron of Avengers arrived quickly enough to destroy three Kel-Morian transports, and half a squad of enemy soldiers was wiped out when a marine ran over them with a truck.

  Meanwhile, miles to the east, the Thundering Third had broken through the Snakeback Mountains and pushed a contingent of Kel-Morian regulars back into the disputed zone. A victory for which Vanderspool was given credit despite the fact that Fort Howe had nearly been lost. It was a glaring miscarriage of justice that Raynor was still struggling to accept—and Tychus regarded with his usual cynicism. Vanderspool was a player, and a successful one, so what else was new? If it hadn’t been Vanderspool it would have been some other officer.

  The question is, Tychus thought, why does the sonofabitch want to talk to me? He doesn’t know that we took the truck, not for sure anyway, because he would have sent the MPs after us if he did.

  The jitney arrived in front of the command center, and Tychus jumped off as a couple of other people got on. He was dressed for the occasion this time, in crisp cammies and glossy boots. Rather than lug a rifle around, Tychus was armed with a pistol in a shoulder holster.

  In the wake of the surprise attack two marines were posted outside the building. They demanded that Tychus submit to an identity scan, and like the clerk Tychus had dealt with on the day he arrived, the guards were too polite. Where are these people coming from? the noncom wondered. There was something strange about them.

  Tychus went upstairs and entered the waiting room outside of Vanderspool’s office. The same red-haired corporal he had met before was on duty and instructed him to sit down. It was a longer wait this time because Vanderspool was being interviewed by a UNN reporter, so rather than let the opportunity go to waste, Tychus spent the next five minutes mentally undressing the corporal one item of clothing at a time. She was down to a pair of panties and her combat boots by the time the journalist left the office. “You can go in now,” she said brightly, and smiled.

  Tychus thanked her, made his way over to the door, and knocked. Then, having heard the word “Come!” he took three paces forward and announced himself. “Sergeant Findlay reporting as ordered, sir!”

  ***

  Vanderspool looked up from his calendar as a pressed and polished Tychus Findlay entered the room. I’ll be damned, he thought, the guy looks like he just stepped out of a recruiting poster.

  Vanderspool had mixed feelings about his newly appointed sergeant. During the Kel-Morians’ sneak attack—the magnitude of
which came as an unpleasant surprise to Vanderspool, who was expecting a simple raid—Findlay had led his squad to the armory with plans to defend it. Upon seeing that the facility was being looted, he and his men had not only given chase, but had actually recovered one of the trucks. Having it returned to Confederate hands didn’t help Vanderspool or his Kel-Morian partner financially, of course, but it did make him look like a hero. And for that, he was rewarded handsomely, with the honor of being named full colonel, a title he’d schemed long and hard to attain.

  The missing truck was still nowhere to be found, however, which was very costly for both parties. At an emergency meeting the next day, his KM partner, Aaron Pax, was furious, accusing Vanderspool of double-crossing him by stealing the truck for himself. Vanderspool convinced him otherwise, promised he’d get to the bottom of it, and countered with his own questions about the attack. Why had things gone down the way they had, with so many extra men and firepower? All their other schemes had worked like clockwork, but this one was a total disaster. His partner claimed ignorance, but the colonel was not so sure.

  But after interrogating the two captured drivers from the armory, Vanderspool had the name of a Kel-Morian superior, and was able to piece together why the small operation had turned into a full-scale assault. It was a classic case of greed gone wrong: The superior had discovered the scheme and piggybacked onto the mission, sending out his own troops and hiring civilian drivers to steal the trucks. But it was poorly planned, and, thankfully, turned out to be a failure for the interloper; as the trucks left in a convoy, they were intercepted by their rightful captors and reclaimed, which at least made Vanderspool feel a little better—he’d hate to think that the scheming pig had made off with any loot. Even so, Vanderspool was hell-bent on revenge, and he would get it. He always did.

  For now, though, he needed to find the missing truck; it was the most valuable of them all by a huge margin—it was filled with components for weapons and armor upgrades, which were worth nearly eight million credits all by themselves—and Vanderspool was determined to find it. So where was it? Findlay was a convicted criminal, after all… . Not for theft, but the guy was depraved enough to attack his commanding officer. Something wasn’t right with him. Did he know where the truck was?

  And what about the other members of Findlay’s squad? Were they a bunch of degenerates that finally found their rightful leader? Or was the entire group pure as the driven snow? There was no way to know—but he would do his best to find out. “At ease,” Vanderspool said, and forced a smile. “It’s good to see you again, Findlay… . Please, have a seat.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Tychus sat down. He felt uncharacteristically nervous. What was Vanderspool’s angle? What was he after?

  “It took guts to chase those looters and recover that truck,” Vanderspool said, “and I’m proud of you.”

  The truth was that Tychus had been hell-bent on stealing both vehicles and hiding them in the ruins of neighboring Whitford. Raynor had talked him out of it. Because, as the younger man put it, “if you bring one of the trucks back, they’ll believe your story. And if you don’t it will look like the entire squad went AWOL in the middle of a battle. Which strategy sounds better to you ?”

  Tychus had been resistant to Raynor’s smart-assed input at first, but was glad he had listened now, as Vanderspool’s dark eyes bored into him. Maybe Jim Raynor would prove to be of some value, after all. “Thank you, sir.”

  “So,” Vanderspool continued, “Thanks to your outstanding performance, it’s my pleasure to inform you that you and your men are going to be part of a new mixed-force unit that I will have the honor to lead.

  “The 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion is going to be an elite outfit—but the team you’ll be part of will be even more remarkable. We’re calling it the Special Tactics and Missions platoon, or STM. It will receive the very latest armor and related technology. Sound good?”

  It sounded bad. Very bad, because anytime the Marine Corps said that something was “special,” it wasn’t. And membership in elite units always meant more work, more inspections, and more attention from above. All of which would be detrimental to Operation Early Retirement. “Yes, sir,” Tychus lied. “I can hardly wait to get started.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Vanderspool replied cheerfully. “You’ll be pleased to know that we’re bringing in a young fire-breather to lead the STM platoon. His name is Lieutenant Quigby, and you’ll have an opportunity to meet him shortly.”

  By that time Tychus had taken note of a change to Vanderspool’s uniform. So he took the opportunity to suck up, in hopes that doing so would help put whatever doubts the officer might have had to rest. “I look forward to working with Lieutenant Quigby, sir … and congratulations on your promotion.”

  Tychus could sense the wheels turning as Vanderspool smiled. “Thank you, Sergeant. Good luck with your new assignment. I plan to keep an eye on you.”

  Did the last comment constitute a threat? Yes, Tychus thought that it did, but forced a smile anyway. “Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.” And with that he got up to leave.

  Vanderspool watched the other man go. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Sergeant Findlay was exactly what he appeared to be. A big, simple-minded brute that would continue to be a useful tool until such time as the Kel-Morians killed him. And maybe the men who reported to him were choir boys. But maybes could be dangerous, especially with so much at stake, so an insurance policy was in order. And, unless Vanderspool missed his guess, there was bound to be one just waiting to be used.

  Three days after the official creation of the 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion, Lieutenant Marcus Quigby mustered his platoon on a field adjacent to Fort Howe’s firing range and took the opportunity to introduce himself. The platoon consisted of three squads—none of which were up to full strength.

  That didn’t stop Quigby from strutting back and forth in front of his tiny command as if it were a full regiment, a brand-new swagger stick under his arm, as his other hand jabbed the air. Quigby loved to give long, boring speeches, insisted on following every regulation to the letter, and micromanaged everything his subordinates did. None of which endeared the officer to his troops.

  But thanks to his talent for engineering—and the fact that his father was a general—Quigby had been given a slot in what might become a very visible organization. Just the thing to jumpstart his career if everything went well. None of which mattered to Raynor, who found it difficult to take the young officer seriously. “What an asshole,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, which caused Zander to grin.

  Quigby’s tirade had clearly reached a climax as he jabbed a finger toward the sky. “So,” he said portentously, “with all that in mind, the time has come for a new generation of hardskins. I’m talking about armor with advanced capabilities that will enable this platoon to clear obstacles during conventional attacks, carry out missions behind enemy lines, and reinforce units temporarily cut off from a larger force. Behold the future!”

  Somebody’s timing was off, so Quigby was left standing there, his finger pointing at the clear blue sky for a good four seconds before a muted roar was heard. That was when Raynor and the rest of the troops saw something leap into the air a thousand feet down-range and come their way.

  The bright red hardskin arrived a few seconds later, turned a full circle as if to display the jet pack that kept it aloft, and lowered itself to the ground. The big boots produced twin puffs of dust as they hit, and the power pack made a high-pitched whining noise as it spooled down.

  It was an impressive demonstration and Quigby was clearly proud of it. His beady eyes, framed by disproportionately bushy eyebrows, darted from one face to the next. “Not bad, eh?” he demanded in a high, squeaky voice. “This is a demonstration model, which was modified to meet Technician Feek’s needs. But it’s similar to what each member of the platoon will receive after you qualify on standard CMC-225s. Fortunately for us, Sergeant Findlay is an expert where the 225s are concerne
d—and will be able to bring the rest of you up to speed. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?”

  The whole thing was news to Tychus, who came to attention. “Sir! Yes, sir.”

  “I thought as much,” Quigby said to no one in particular. “Once we move on to the CMC-230-XEs and -XFs, it will be time for Mister Feek to take over the training effort.”

  “Hello,” the man in the hardskin said, his voice booming through external speakers. “My name is Hiram Feek. I’m looking forward to providing you with instruction on how to operate a Procyon Industries 230-series hardskin, otherwise known as Thunderstrike armor. The unit I’m wearing today is a CMC-230-XF, sometimes referred to as a firebat, due to its unique capabilities.”

  That was when a whirring sound was heard as the CMC-230’s helmet was removed and the suit cycled open to reveal the man inside. Harnack let out an audible gasp. Feek was only about four feet tall and stood on special risers. He had a shaved head and a generously proportioned mustache that bobbed up and down as he addressed the men.

  “As is the case with any new weapons system, the 230-series suits will require some fine-tuning before thay are put into service. So please keep me informed regarding any operational issues that you run into over the next few weeks. Your feedback will help Procyon Industries to perfect this new generation of hardskins.”

  And with that the suit cycled closed and the helmet clicked on. Feek raised an arm, pointed it over their heads, and shot a gout of flame into the air.

  “That’s beautiful!” Harnack said reverently. “Can I have one?”

  “Yes,” Lieutenant Quigby answered indulgently, “you can.”

  Fleet Petty Officer Third Class Lisa Cassidy had been confined to Fort Howe’s brig for two days. Not all that long a period of time for most brig rats, but Cassidy was addicted to a drug called crab, a powerfully intoxicating depressant. And two intervals was a long time to go without a hit. So she was grumpy, twitchy, and a bit paranoid as a series of clangs were heard outside of her cell and two female MPs came to collect her.