Heaven’s Devils

by William C. Dietz

  Raynor watched the red dot draw a line around the camp. “Having blown holes in the charged shock wall, you’ll evacuate the POWs to the landing pad located here.” As the red dot came into contact with it, the 3-D image grew larger and began to rotate. “By that time other members of your battalion will have landed to provide you with support and a succession of dropships will arrive to evac the POWs. A squadron of Avengers will be on hand to keep the Kel-Morian Hellhounds off your backs. Oh, and one more thing… .” she added, with all the volume she could muster. “When you get back—the beer is on me!”

  That announcement produced a very enthusiastic cheer, and Vanderspool smiled indulgently as he returned to center stage. “Thank you, Captain Hobarth… . That was an excellent presentation. And I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into— because the men and women of the 321st are very thirsty!”

  The audience chuckled appreciatively as Hobarth raised a skeletal hand, smiled weakly, and plodded offstage.

  “Okay,” Vanderspool said soberly, “that’s the overview. Obviously it will be necessary to solve a lot of tactical problems before you’ll be ready to carry out a mission of this complexity. And that’s what we’ll be working on over the next couple of weeks. In the meantime, remember this: Security is of the utmost importance. Surprise is a key element of the plan that Captain Hobarth described to you, and there are Kel-Morian sympathizers in the area. So don’t discuss the mission when you’re off duty. Not even with each other. Do you scan me?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Good. Training will commence at 1400 hours. Acting platoon leader Findlay will be in charge. Dismissed.”

  Raynor looked left, saw his friend scowl, and grinned. Tychus might not be much of a strategist, but he was a natural leader, and the perfect person to lead the raid on KIC-36. Even if he was going to bitch about the responsibility twenty-five hours a day! The next couple of weeks would be interesting.

  Tychus stood up and eyed the faces around him. “So what are you people waiting for? An engraved invitation? Get your butts in gear… . We have work to do.” Preparations had begun.

  Camp Crash, as it soon came to be known, was located about ten miles southwest of Fort Howe. It consisted of two hills, with an old gravel pit centered between them, and a couple of ramshackle buildings off to one side. And, because the STM platoon had been given its own dropship to train with, they could travel to and from Camp Crash in a matter of minutes.

  As training day three dawned, and the platoon prepared to board the Sweetie Pie, Tychus gave them his version of a pep talk. “You people are pathetic,” he began. “The plan is to jump out of the dropship and land on your feet, not your heads! Control is the key… . So quit screwing around.”

  They had heard it all before. Control was the key. But how to accomplish it? Piloting the Thunderstrike armor during carefully monitored training exercises was one thing, but controlling it under combat conditions was something else, and only a third of the platoon’s thirty-five soldiers were any good at it.

  Unfortunately Raynor wasn’t one of them, and as he boarded the Sweetie Pie it felt as though ball bearings were rolling around in the pit of his stomach. He was among those who had crashed the day before, which forced Feek to stay up all night repairing Raynor’s CMC-230-XE.

  The truth was that “flying” one of the hardskins took as much skill as piloting an Avenger. So how many 230-XEs could the Confederacy realistically put into service? Not very damned many, not in Raynor’s opinion anyway, because it would be too expensive and time consuming.

  The dropship took off and began to climb. Raynor was nervous, but Tychus was there to comfort him. “Try not to embarrass me again,” the noncom said, as he stopped in front of Raynor. “You looked ridiculous yesterday. If you’re determined to kill yourself,” he growled, “the least you could do is wait for the actual mission, and dive headfirst into a missile turret! Then I could put you in for a medal. Your parents would like that.” He produced a cheerless, fake smile, and was gone half a second later. Having spread his own special brand of joy, Tychus moved on to speak with the next team member.

  A few minutes later the ship reached 8,000 feet, turned toward the southwest, and began the first run of what promised to be a long day. Both of the side doors and the specially rigged floor hatch were open, so the dropship’s slipstream was buffeting the soldier who was acting as jump master. Protected as he was by the CMC-230-XE, Raynor barely noticed the breeze as he lined up behind a private named Pauley. She was one of the “naturals,” a person with a natural affinity for Thunderstrike armor, and showed no signs of hesitation as she fell through the hatch and disappeared.

  Raynor, who had been careful to skip breakfast, felt slightly nauseous as he took the final step into nothingness. He wanted to piss, his heart was thumping in his ears, and he was short of breath. He couldn’t see the target as the CMC-230 plunged toward the surface below. Not directly, because the only way to look down would be to bend at the waist, a move that would send him spinning out of control. But he could see the gravel pit via tiny cameras built into his boots.

  His target was Hill Bravo, which was a quarter mile to the right, meaning it would be necessary to steer himself in that direction. A scary prospect, since things were going well so far, and any action he took could result in disaster.

  But Raynor had no choice. Not if he was to land on target. An AGR-14 gauss rifle was clamped to his chest. That left him free to deploy his arms as well as the computer-controlled vanes that were built into them. Having done so, Raynor shifted his weight. The result was a satisfying turn to the right, followed by a tight spiral, which he was forced to correct.

  Then, just when Raynor was beginning to feel that he had the hang of the process, an unexpected burst of wind sent him tumbling out of control! His boots flipped up where his head should have been, an alarm sounded inside his helmet, and everything except the suit’s readouts became a blur. Raynor was a bullet now, speeding toward the planet’s surface, where a very symmetrical crater was about to appear.

  Had the jet pack fired yet? No, and a good thing too, because that would propel him toward the ground at an even higher rate of speed. Raynor knew he would have to use his arms and body to correct his orientation relative to the ground or end up buried in it. The key was to act slowly and deliberately, even though every fiber of his body wanted to hurry, knowing that the ground was coming up at 160 miles per hour.

  So Raynor straightened his body, deployed his arms the way he’d been taught to, and felt his head flip up. The gravel pit reappeared on his HUD. Tychus, who had seemingly been born knowing how to use the new suits, witnessed the move via one of the tracking cameras on the dropship. His voice filled Raynor’s helmet. “This ain’t no game, jerk weed! Save the tricks for someone who cares. Over.”

  Raynor grinned as the jet pack fired, the CMC-230-XE began to slow, and Hill Bravo grew larger below him. Tychus thought he was screwing around! Doing tricks when he was supposed to concentrate on training. “Sorry about that, Sierra-Six… . I got carried away. Over.”

  ***

  In spite of Raynor’s reasonably successful jump, not everyone fared so well, and by the time the Sweetie Pie returned to Fort Howe, Doc had not only been forced to treat various broken bones but deal with a couple of fatalities as well. Feek took the deaths especially hard. After all, he was responsible for the way the CMCs were designed.

  Plus the hardskins would have to be replaced from Feek’s quickly dwindling supply of spares, while other suits were going to require major repairs, and almost all of them had at least minor problems.

  So when the dropship put down, and UNN reporter Max Speer went out to meet it, Tychus was already in a pissy mood. “Look over here!” Speer said, as he pointed at a hovering cam bot. “That’s right… . Give me that ‘I’m gonna kick some ass’ look.”

  Only it was more than a look. Speer saw something huge fill his field of vision as he was hauled off his feet. Tychus thre
w the other man over an armored shoulder, and Speer was subjected to a jarring ride as the platoon leader carried him toward the command center located nearby. The camera followed them.

  Sentries stared in open-mouthed amazement as Tychus brushed past them, ducked under the top of the doorway, and pounded up the stairs to the point where he was forced to duck again. Then he was in the waiting room on his way to the office beyond.

  A lieutenant was sitting in Vanderspool’s guest chair, and she uttered a surprised shriek as an armored giant barged into the room and dumped what she assumed to be a dead body on the base commander’s desk. “I brought you a spy, sir,” Tychus rumbled, as Speer rolled onto his feet. “Look!” Tychus said as he plucked the cam bot out of the air. “The bastard has been taking pictures of us!”

  Vanderspool scowled as he came to his feet and turned to the lieutenant. “Would you excuse us? Thank you.”

  Once the lieutenant was gone Vanderspool spoke again as he walked around his desk to stand beside Speer. “Have you lost your mind? This is Max Speer… . He’s a reporter for UNN—and he’s been cleared to accompany you. Max is going to show the citizens of the Confederacy what a fantastic job our soldiers are doing—isn’t that right, Max?” he said, giving the reporter a friendly pat on the back.

  Speer smiled broadly, and said, “At your service, Colonel.”

  Tychus looked at Speer and back again before releasing the cam bot. It pulled back in order to get a wide shot.

  “No way, sir… . There isn’t enough time to teach him how to jump. Besides, we’re going to have enough to do without tracking any civilians.”

  Vanderspool raised a hand. “Don’t worry, Sergeant. Speer will arrive with the second wave on one of the dropships. Now, if you would be so good as to return to your duties, I have work to do.”

  Speer had fully recovered from being thrown onto the desk—he had more important things to worry about. “Hold that position for a sec,” Speer said as the cam bot took up a position directly in front of Vanderspool. The officer flashed a bright smile. Neither one of them turned to look as Tychus left the office.

  After their first full week of training, Raynor offered to take Tychus into the HTD for a beer, knowing full well that the other man wasn’t likely to decline a free drink. The truth was, the two had forged a solid friendship, and Raynor had become Tychus’s unofficial second in command, even if a couple of sergeants outranked him. That didn’t mean Tychus would agree to the proposal Raynor had in mind, however—especially since the idea ran counter to one of his most cherished sayings: “Never volunteer for anything.”

  When the time came to meet Tychus, Raynor saw that Doc was clinging to one of the big man’s arms. Raynor shouldn’t have been surprised, because the two of them had been groping one another for weeks by then, even though certain members of the platoon disapproved. Tychus and Doc were in the same chain of command after all, which raised the possibility of favoritism if nothing else, but no one had the balls to complain about it.

  So the three of them ventured into the comfortable sleaziness of the HTD, where everyone seemed to know Doc, and, minutes later, they were shown to their favorite table at Three Fingered Jack’s.

  Knowing Tychus the way he did, Raynor waited until his friend had consumed several glasses of Scotty Bolger’s before making his case. “I’ve got an idea,” Raynor said, having checked to make sure that no one was close enough to hear. “Something that will help our mission succeed.”

  “Yeah?” Tychus responded. “What’s that? You plan to shoot Max Speer in the head?”

  Raynor laughed. Speer had proven to be as annoying as they’d all expected—and forever underfoot. “That would be incredibly gratifying, but no,” Raynor replied. He straightened. “My concern is this… . You saw Captain Hobarth. How many of the POWs are just like her—injured, weak, slow?”

  Doc, who was busy giving Tychus a shoulder massage, appeared to be oblivious to the conversation. From the dreamy look in her eyes, Raynor could tell she was high. But so were most of the other people in the bar—difference being that they preferred alcohol to crab. And, so long as Doc was sober while on duty, Raynor figured what she did the rest of the time was up to her.

  “So, here’s the problem,” he continued. “The flaw in Vanderspool’s plan is that once we blow the shock wall, the POWs won’t come pouring out. Partly because they won’t be expecting us—and partly because at least some of them will be in bad shape. And loading them will take a long time. Maybe too long. The Hellhounds will be on us by then. How long can the Avengers hold them off?”

  “This all makes sense,” Tychus allowed, “but I’ll be damned if I know what we can do about it. Of course you do, or think you do, which is why you’re buying the booze.”

  “As it happens I do have something in mind,” Raynor agreed lightly. “And it goes like this: I want to drop into the area one day early. I’ll enter the POW camp, mingle with the prisoners, and help them get organized. Then, when the platoon falls out of the sky, they’ll be ready to go.”

  There was a moment of silence as Tychus emptied his glass, followed by a solid thunk as he put it down. Then, having wiped off his lips with the back of one hand, he belched. “That,” Tychus proclaimed, “is one of the worst ideas I have ever heard! Have you been shooting some of Doc’s crab?”

  Raynor glanced at Doc, whose attention was still somewhere far, far away. “What’s wrong with it?” he demanded defensively.

  “I’m glad you asked,” Tychus replied. “First, if anything goes wrong with your jump, the entire mission could be compromised. Second, how the hell would you enter the camp, supposing you’re lucky enough to survive the landing? And third, what if you succeed, and Colonel Vanderscum scrubs the mission?”

  “Yeah,” Doc put in vacantly. “That would suck.”

  “It certainly would,” Raynor conceded. “But given the fact that Speer is still on the job, I’m pretty sure our little outing is good to go.

  “And as far as how I’m going to land and get inside the camp, I got that idea when our scouts captured a KM Hellhound pilot yesterday. He was shot down over the disputed zone—they’re holding him on the base.

  “All you have to do is get the colonel to put a lid on the news that we have him. Then with help from the intel people, I’ll put on a Kel-Morian flight suit, stroll up to one of the gates at KIC-36 and show them some very official-looking ID. Once they let me in, I’ll ask them for a ride back to my base. But, since it’s more than two hundred miles away, it’ll take them at least a day to arrange for transportation. Meanwhile, I’ll find a way to make contact with the POWs and warn them.”

  Tychus looked Raynor in the eye. “Tell me something, Jim,” he asked skeptically, “because this all sounds completely crazy. What’s in it for you?”

  Raynor was silent for a moment. “You might think this is bullshit… . But this mission is something I actually believe in. Something pure and clean, no underlying motives, no greed—these are our people, and they need our help. I want to bring them out. Maybe it sounds stupid, but this is what I had in mind when I joined up.”

  Tychus eyed him cynically. “Vanderspool wants to make general. What’s so pure and clean about that?”

  Raynor shrugged. “It doesn’t matter so long as the prisoners escape.”

  “Okay,” Tychus said reluctantly. “I’ll tackle it first thing in the morning. In the meantime, go grab some more drinks. All this talking is making me thirsty.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “As the Kel-Morian engagement marches toward its fourth year, we have received several reports of heightened criminal activity in the civilian sector. Although some analysts blame this new wave of lawlessness on the dynamics of a wartime economy, the consensus among Confederate pundits is that this criminality represents the exposure of certain portions of the citizenry. One analyst, who asked to remain anonymous, said, ‘It is our belief that patriotism shows its true colors in times of hardship.’”

&n
bsp; Max Speer, Special Evening Report from the Front Line for UNN November 2488

  FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  The sun was still rising, the air was crisp, and Tychus was in a good mood. Much to Tychus’s amazement, Colonel Vanderspool liked Raynor’s proposal. That made sense in a way, because the battalion commander wanted the mission to succeed, but Tychus was so cynical about officers in general—and Vanderspool in particular—that the green light was a surprise.

  So Tychus was on his way from the command center to the building where the KM pilot was being held, when he saw someone he had never expected to see again: Sam Lassiter.

  Somewhere along the line the soldier had undergone a near miraculous transformation. Rather than the rebellious, unkempt figure that Tychus had last seen being escorted out of the rock quarry by armored guards, this Lassiter had short hair, was clean-shaven, and wore a uniform so perfect it looked like something straight out of a recruiting video. The soldier cut across Tychus’s path but paused when his name was called. “Hey, Private Lassiter,” Tychus said. “The last time I saw you was at MCF-R-156. I’m surprised they let you out after what you did to Bellamy.”

  Lassiter’s eyes were blank. “MCF what? Bellamy? I don’t understand. You must have me mixed up with someone else.”

  “I don’t think so,” Tychus replied, as he eyed the private’s nametag. “You don’t remember the quarry, the box … attacking Sergeant Bellamy?”

  Lassiter was clearly aghast. “Attack a sergeant?” he said disbelievingly. “You must be joking. I would never do something like that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m due at the command center in five minutes and I don’t want to be late.” And with that he walked away.

  Tychus turned to watch him go. Besides the fact that the guy was completely delusional, there was something weird about Lassiter’s demeanor … something that reminded him of the overly courteous admin clerk, the bright-eyed sentries assigned to keep Vanderspool safe, and something the colonel had said: “… if you think hard labor was bad, you can only imagine what else we’re capable of. You might just end up a prisoner in your own body.” What did that mean, anyway? Had the Confederacy come up with a new program? A way to take a wild man like Lassiter and turn him into a human robot? There was no way to be sure, but as Tychus continued on his way, he had one more thing to worry about.