Heaven’s Devils

by William C. Dietz

  “It ain’t over till it’s over,” Zander replied, in an attempt to cheer the other man up. “So it’s the Kel-Morians who oughtta be worried!”

  The two men were silent for several minutes as they struggled with their bonds, trying to loosen them without success. Because of the thick cloud cover, evening had faded into complete darkness, and from under the bright lights of the living room, nothing could be seen outside. Which only added to the feeling of being on display.

  “You know,” Ward said, finally interrupting the sustained silence. “It was my fault… .”

  “How so?”

  “It was about six months ago, back on Tyrador VIII,” Ward replied. “My wife said we should head out into the country, get away from the refinery. But I said, ‘No, the KMs’ll never come here.’ That’s what I said. And then they came! I’m the one who should have died. You understand, Max? I’m the one.”

  “Connor, I’m so sorry. It was bad luck, that’s all. But hey, we all make mistakes. I know I have. All you can do is—”

  Suddenly, a loud crash was heard, and Hiram Feek fell through the roof.

  Moments before Feek fell through the roof, Raynor was lying next to a freshly deceased sentry about a hundred yards away, calculating his next move. Though not as powerful as the .50 caliber weapon Kydd normally carried, the lighter weapon Feek had provided from a surprisingly large stash of so-called test weapons was just as effective, and equipped with a silencer.

  Within seconds, Kydd neutralized enough sentries to allow Raynor to close in on the farmhouse and catch a glimpse of the way his friends had been positioned in the brightly lit living room. Once he figured out what the bandits expected him and his friends to do, he called Feek in for his jump.

  And it was a thing of beauty! From liftoff to landing the textbook-perfect arc brought Feek and his armor crashing down through the farmhouse’s roof and an upstairs bedroom to land only a few feet from the hostages.

  The problem was, his right boot went through a couple of floorboards, leaving Feek in an awkward position. Wood splintered as Feek jerked his foot out, and the rifle made a clattering noise as he shot the lights out. The hostages were safe.

  Then, just before the real battle began, there was a brief opportunity for Ward to speak. “Nice of you to drop in, Feek—what the hell took you so long?”

  Tychus liked a good fight, especially when there was the prospect of profit and he knew the battle would go his way. As he and Harnack readied their weapons, there was a sudden crash, and the bandits, who had lost control of the hostages, came rushing out of various buildings, firing their weapons wildly.

  The two marines weren’t wearing armor, and didn’t need to, as the green blobs appeared on their HUDs and both men opened fire with carefully controlled bursts. Their assault weapons chattered, and blobs stumbled and fell, as Doc slipped into the barn. An M-1 bag was slung over her shoulder, and the pistol she always carried into battle was in her hand.

  Cassidy paused in a shadow. That was when Trask turned away from the slaughter taking place out front and cut diagonally across the floor toward the side door. He was holding a needle-gun, and gold jewelry winked as he passed under a dangling glow strip.

  Doc brought the pistol up in the approved two-handed grip, took careful aim, and shot Trask in the head. He staggered, tripped, and fell headfirst into the pit.

  She heard girlish screams, followed by a sudden commotion down in the hole, and spotted a ladder. Then, having lowered it into place, she was there to help the hollow-eyed prisoners escape from the tank.

  “You’re an angel,” the older woman said gratefully, as Doc gave her a hand.

  Cassidy smiled. “I’m a lot of things, ma’am,” she said grimly, “but an angel isn’t one of them.”

  ***

  Once all the shooting was over, and the squad had complete control of the farm, they came together in the open space in front of the barn. “Damn,” Harnack said as he looked around. “Are we good, or what?”

  “Good for nothing,” Zander said, straight-faced. “It would have been nice if you had arrived a bit earlier.”

  “And it would be nice if you would spend your money on booze and hookers,” Tychus put in as he emerged from the barn. “And not necessarily in that order.” Having stripped Trask of his jewelry, he was trying to force a garish-looking ring onto the little finger of his left hand.

  “Which raises an important topic,” Kydd interjected. “It seems to me that the people who got rescued should buy the beer.”

  “Count on it,” Ward said with a smile. “The first round is on Zander.”

  “Good,” Tychus said, “because I happen to know of a bar that would benefit from our business.”

  Raynor groaned. “Not Hurley’s …”

  Tychus grinned wolfishly. “Of course Hurley’s! We need a refund on those overpriced sandwiches.”

  “Gimme some!” Harnack said, as he raised his hand.

  The high-fives generated a series of slapping sounds.

  Doc was the last person to join in the celebration.

  FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  Four days had passed since the raid on the farmhouse, the squad was back at Fort Howe, and Doc was pissed. She and the rest of the squad had been training hard, and were in the middle of a hard-earned break when a message arrived ordering her to report to the command center. That was definitely not in keeping with the reporting process that she and Vanderspool had agreed on.

  So having been told to report to Vanderspool’s office, Cassidy blew through the waiting room and entered in a huff. The door slammed behind her as she stomped across the room. Vanderspool, who had been busy stuffing printouts into a briefcase, looked up in surprise as a very angry medic came forward to lean on his desk. “What the hell are you trying to do?” she demanded. “Get me killed? If Tychus figures out I’ve been ratting him out he’ll squash me like a bug—”

  Vanderspool was a desk jockey, but hadn’t always been one, and Doc was surprised by the speed with which his right hand shot out to grab a fistful of shirt. A fancy clock, two vidsnaps, and a brass shell casing filled with writing implements went flying as he dragged her across the surface of the desk until her nose was only inches from his. “You will address me as ‘sir’ … and as for having you killed, that could happen today! Do you scan me, bitch?”

  Doc saw the anger in his dark eyes and knew she’d gone too far. That was one of the problems associated with using crab. Any time she had too much or too little of the drug, it affected her judgment. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  Vanderspool pushed her away. “That’s better… . I don’t have time to play meet-the-drug-whore in the HTD today… . General Thane wants me to fly to Boro Airbase for a strategy session. But before I go I want a report on Sergeant Findlay and his group of misfits.

  “Civilian authorities claim that a man matching his description entered a pub called Hurley’s the day before yesterday, challenged the owner to a fistfight, and nearly killed him. Plus, if what they say is true, other soldiers were present as well … one of whom was described as being a female with short hair and a pretty face. Sound familiar?”

  Cassidy stood with her head bowed, looking down at the mess on the floor. She began by saying, “Yes, sir,” in a subdued voice, and went on to tell the story as she knew it, starting with being awoken by Feek.

  Vanderspool listened intently as Doc described the trip to Finner’s Crossing, what she had overheard regarding large quantities of money, the map, the attack on the farm, the manner in which the hostages had been freed, and the subsequent delivery of Zander’s food shipment to a refugee camp nearby. Vanderspool’s blood was boiling. All his suspicions were confirmed—the whole lot of them were worthless, pitiful crooks. His temples throbbed and his jaw tightened as Cassidy continued her narrative.

  “Then, on the way back to base, Tychus, I mean Findlay, insisted that we stop at Hurley’s Bar, because Hurley was the one who gave Raynor the map and ratted u
s out.” She shrugged. “You know how Findlay is. Hurley was good with his hands—but not good enough. In fact, if it weren’t for Lance Corporal Raynor pulling Findlay off him, the bastard might be dead.”

  “But they say you gave him first aid,” Vanderspool said.

  “That’s what I do,” Cassidy said off-handedly.

  “That’s one of the things you do,” Vanderspool countered tightly. “You are dismissed.”

  Doc looked up. Her surprise was obvious. “Dismissed?”

  “Yes,” Vanderspool responded. “What did you expect? A medal?”

  “You aren’t going to throw us all in the stockade?”

  “No,” Vanderspool replied. “I told you I’m on my way to a meeting. Now get the hell out of my office!”

  Doc came to attention, did an about-face, and left.

  Vanderspool slammed his hands down on his desk. So he’d been right all along… . Findlay and his cronies had stolen the truck, sold its contents to the highest bidder, and split the money. His money.

  Vanderspool stalked into his lavatory and clutched the sides of the sink. Leaning in toward the mirror, his jaw clenched, the colonel peered intently at his reflection. Those goddamn thieving bastards, he thought. I’m going to kill those sons of bitches. I knew it! Furious, he smashed his fist into the mirror. It shattered into a thousand pieces, shards of glass clattered as they fell, and Vanderspool looked at his knuckles. His skin was ragged.

  The colonel’s mind was flashing with rage, but he needed to focus. He wanted to kill them, brutally, mercilessly—or worse, turn their brains to mush so he could see their smiling, worshipful faces as they were forced to do his bidding.

  But that would have to wait. As infuriating as it was, he needed them—the STM platoon were the only soldiers who had undergone the weeks of training required to use the new hardskins, and there was no one else who could execute the strategic plan he was about to present at the conference. It would be his shining moment, and one that could not be tarnished—by anyone, not even them.

  With a dropship waiting for him, Vanderspool left for the airstrip. The corporal, who had no idea what was going on, was left to clean up the mess on the floor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “These rumors are based on the worst kind of propaganda, something our enemy is intimately familiar with. All the prisoners of war being held in our internment facilities receive three nutritious meals each day, are given excellent medical care, and are treated with respect.”

  From a statement released on behalf of the Kel-Morian Combine November 2488

  FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  The sky was gunmetal gray, it was unseasonably cold, and the troops were wearing water-slicked ponchos as they crossed the rain-lashed grinder. Puddles had formed in the low spots and produced tiny geysers each time a droplet of water fell into them.

  The first thing that members of the STM platoon noticed as Tychus Findlay led them into the base theater was the fact that a squad of heavily armed MPs was patrolling the perimeter of the building. Harnack, who was walking next to Raynor, produced a low whistle. “What’s with all the security?”

  Raynor shrugged. “Beats me … maybe they know the briefing’ll be so boring they’ll need guards to keep us in there.”

  “Or maybe something important is in the wind,” Harnack theorized. “I’d like to fry me some more Kel-Morians.”

  “It’s a good plan,” Raynor said dryly, “so long as they don’t fry you.”

  Harnack might have replied, but the two men were inside the lobby by then, and being herded into the auditorium beyond. It was large enough to hold hundreds of people, so every member of the thirty-five-person platoon got a seat in the first row.

  It took a few minutes to get everyone settled in, but once they were, Colonel Vanderspool appeared from the wings and marched to the center of the stage. Then, looking down at Tychus, he said, “Sergeant, is everyone accounted for?”

  The officer was wearing a lip mic and his voice boomed over the theater’s sound system. Had Tychus known that Doc’s effort to humiliate Lieutenant Quigby would cause the officer to be transferred, thereby leaving him in charge of the platoon, he would have put a stop to the harassment. Because the last thing Tychus wanted was to be in charge of anything other than a large bank account. But Quigby was gone and there was a shortage of line officers, which meant he’d have to fill the slot until a replacement came in. So all he could do was look up at Vanderspool and say, “Yes, sir. All present, sir.”

  “Excellent,” Vanderspool responded as a carefully crafted smile appeared on his handsome face. “I have some very good news for the STM platoon. After weeks of training, you have a mission! And not just any mission. This is the sort of outing we had in mind when those CMC-230 suits were issued to you.

  “In fact, if this effort goes the way we hope it will, our goal is to use you and your new hardskins to help capture the Kel-Morian strategic resources repository in the city of Polk’s Pride. It’s a critical objective—one that we are certain will decide the outcome of the war on Turaxis II.” His smile broadened even more as he swept his gaze across the line of soldiers. “How would you like to be the Confederacy’s most celebrated war heroes?”

  The reaction from the soldiers was glum in spite of Vanderspool’s enthusiastic pitch, and a few whispers were exchanged. “Ah, yes,” Vanderspool continued cheerfully. “Some of you may know that we have attempted to cross the Paddick River and attack the repository before. Unfortunately, we failed. But trust me—we will try again, and we will succeed. You have my word.

  “But, before we get started with Polk’s Pride, let’s take a look at the immediate objective.” As the lights went down and a holo appeared on the stage, Vanderspool moved to one side.

  “The image you’re looking at was captured by an orbiting battlecruiser,” Vanderspool explained. “The pictures they took were computer enhanced and combined to create the map you see on the screen.”

  As Raynor studied the image, he saw what he took to be three hills, each crowned with a fortification. Between them, and surrounded by what appeared to be a plascrete barrier, was what looked like a military camp. Six long, narrow buildings could be seen side by side. Two more were set off from the others, and a command center with a comsat station was located next to several supply depots and a water tower. Access roads wound here and there, dotted with blister-shaped bunkers that bracketed all of the main entry points.

  “What you’re looking at is a prisoner of war camp,” Vanderspool informed them gravely. “It’s called Kel-Morian Internment Camp-36, or KIC-36, and more than four hundred of our brave soldiers and pilots are being held there. And not just held, but tortured, and in some cases murdered. But there’s no need for me to describe what goes on inside the camp, because we are about to have the privilege of hearing about it firsthand from one of the few people to successfully escape, a young pilot who proves that anything is possible.” He stepped back and clapped for several seconds before extending a hand toward the approaching figure, a sympathetic smile on his face. The battalion offered a polite round of applause.

  Aided by a cane and accompanied by a medic, a frail-looking figure shambled out to join Vanderspool. She looked like a skeleton over which parchmentlike skin had been stretched. “This is Captain Clair Hobarth,” Vanderspool said soberly. “Her dropship was shot down; she was captured and taken to KIC-36, where she was held for three months before she managed to escape. The two prisoners who tried to flee with her weren’t so lucky. I was opposed to her coming, but she insisted, because she regards the men and women she left behind as brothers and sisters. Captain Hobarth?”

  Hobarth’s voice was hoarse, but thanks to the mic she was wearing, her words could be heard. “Good morning … thank you all for what you have already accomplished—and will accomplish on behalf of the prisoners of KIC-36.” She drew a slow, deep breath. “I’m not here to tell you a sob story about the months I spent there. I’m here to te
ll you how to attack the camp, kill the animals who run it, and rescue our people.”

  Somebody started to clap, more fervently this time, and Raynor joined in. Here, after the attack on Fort Howe and the looting of the armory, was what he’d been waiting for: something he could believe in. “Thank you,” Hobarth said humbly, as she produced a laser pointer, and a red dot began to roam the 3-D image. Each item it passed grew larger and began to rotate, so that the audience could view it from various angles.

  “By now you’ve noticed these hills.” she said. “They’re all about the same height and topped with missile turrets, defensive guns, and pop-up turrets. And, because there are three of them, anyone who tries to attack the camp will enter a crossfire.

  “That’s bad,” Hobarth croaked, “but making the situation even worse is the fact that some of these weapons could be depressed to fire on the camp itself. And believe me, the camp’s overseer, the man we called ‘Brucker the Butcher,’ wouldn’t hesitate to do so.”

  Hobarth paused at that point as if to let the information sink in before continuing the briefing. “So, if you’re going to rescue our people, you’ve got to neutralize the hilltop fortifications first… . And that’s where your special capabilities come into play.”

  Hobarth paused at that point, as if to summon more energy, before continuing on. “Here’s how it’s going to work,” she continued. “Dropships will fly you over the site. You’ll jump, land on all three hills at the same time, and destroy the weapons installations there. At that point you will make your way downhill, engage the guards, and take control.”