“There,” Brucker said, once Raynor had been disarmed. “That’s better… . It looks as though the enemy sent a spy to Internment Camp-36! Perhaps next time they will do their homework. Let me tell you something about the fraternity of Hellhound pilots, my Confederate friend… . Do you see this?” Brucker demanded as he held up his right hand. The “HH” outline on his palm was vague, but a permanent groove seemed to have formed after years of wear. “Each pilot has two side-by-side steel Hs implanted into the palm of his hand once he qualifies. As a result you can feel the raised area when you shake hands with them. I guess your handlers must have missed that. It’s a shame you’re going to die before you get the chance to tell them.”
Raynor offered no response, nor was one expected.
Brucker turned to the taskmaster. “Take him to the wet room. I’ll be there shortly.”
The guards hauled Raynor out of the room, and Brucker was about to follow when he remembered the POWs. He paused to look back. “You played well tonight … not perfectly, but well. You have my permission to clean up the scraps.” And with that he left.
The POWs stood, looked at one another, and shuffled toward the head of the table. One by one they spit on Brucker’s dessert plate before passing through the door on their way back to the bleak buildings where they spent each night. Would the spy tell Brucker what he had told them? Yes, that was the way of things at KIC-36, and the dark-haired stranger would be grateful when death came for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“They say that clothes make the man. My suits make the man into a fekkin’ monster.”
Hiram Feek, designer of the CMC-230-XE and civilian member of the 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion, in an interview on Turaxis II November 2488
KEL-MORIAN INTERNMENT CAMP-36, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
Judging from the look of things, the torture chamber doubled as a morgue. Or was it the other way around? Not that it mattered. A scattering of instruments lay on a stand, indicator lights marked pieces of electronic equipment, and the air was chilly.
Raynor was naked except for a pair of trunks, and the framework that supported him was slanted away from the floor and positioned over a drain. Bright lights burned his eyes, but when Raynor managed to penetrate the glare, he could see a hazy figure that he knew to be Overseer Brucker. The officer’s thronelike chair was positioned on a raised platform that gave him a better view of the proceedings. “So,” Brucker said, “how are you feeling?”
Raynor thought the torture had been going on for at least half an hour by then, although he had no way to keep track of time. The Kel-Morians hadn’t brought out the hot irons. Not yet anyway. Brucker’s so-called “truth monitor,” a man named Dr. Moller, preferred to use needles. And thanks to his medical training, he knew exactly where to insert them to inflict the maximum amount of pain.
So Raynor’s throat was sore from screaming, his body was soaked with sweat, and as he tilted his head down he could see clusters of needles protruding from various parts of his body. All of them hurt like hell. “I could use an aspirin,” he croaked.
“You’ll be glad to hear that Dr. Moller can relieve pain as well as inflict it,” Brucker replied. “But, before we move to that stage, let’s review what we have so far… . You were sent to gather information about my base. Correct?”
“Yes,” Raynor replied hoarsely.
“And,” Brucker continued, “you claim that Confederate forces are scheduled to attack us at some point during the next two weeks.”
Raynor knew that the leads attached to his body were connected to some sort of lie detector. So the key was to tell the truth as frequently as he could without divulging the most critical fact. Find spider holes and hide, he kept repeating in his head, fearful that the pain would make him momentarily lose his lucidity. An attack was coming all right—but in hours rather than weeks. If he could hold that piece of information back he could protect his friends and prevent a massacre. “Yes, they’re going to attack you,” Raynor agreed.
Raynor blinked the sweat out of his eyes and saw Brucker’s hazy form turn toward a barely visible Moller. The doctor answered the unspoken question with an elaborate shrug. His voice was flat and emotionless. “It appears that he’s telling the truth, or some version of it. One thing seems clear, though… . The attack isn’t imminent. Not if they’re still in the process of gathering intelligence.”
“All right,” Brucker said agreeably, “let’s switch topics for a moment. Tell me about the neural resocialization program. I want to know who runs it, how it works, and what results have been obtained.”
Raynor’s mouth was dry. He tried to summon some saliva but couldn’t.“ ‘Resocialization’? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Moller stepped in at that point, pushed one of the needles in deep, and flicked another with his forefinger. Raynor screamed, and screamed again, as Moller shoved a third needle in under one of his toenails.
“Now,” Brucker said, as the screaming died away. “Let’s try that again. Perhaps you call the program something else… . But based on information obtained by our intel, criminals and other troublemakers are being taken to special centers, where experimental treatments are used to erase their antisocial tendencies. What a sick group of people you are. Kel-Morians would never do anything so cruel. We hear you have quite a few of these brainwashed dullards serving in your armed forces. Now, provide me with all of the relevant details, or suffer some more.”
There was so much pain that Raynor found it difficult to think. “I can’t tell you,” Raynor croaked. “I don’t know.”
“He doesn’t know,” Moller agreed. “Or so it appears.”
“I don’t believe it,” Brucker responded cynically. “Who knows? Maybe this one has been brainwashed. Try again.”
Moller obeyed, and Raynor experienced a jolt of pain so powerful that if felt as if his skull might crack open. So, when the tidal wave of darkness arrived he was grateful for it, and allowed himself to be carried away.
Raynor had died and gone to hell. That’s what he assumed anyway, given his inability to see, and the pain that racked his body. There was light, he knew that, because he could see it through his lids, and feel the heat of it. So he attempted to open his eyes—but it felt as if they were glued shut. The obvious solution was to reach up and rub them. When he tried to do so he discovered that his hands were bound behind him.
So Raynor tried again, willing his eyes to open, and this time his efforts met with success. His left eye popped open, followed by his right, but the light was so bright that he was forced to close them again.
Raynor’s eyelids fluttered, his pupils made the necessary adjustment, and his vision was restored. Now he realized that the bright orb was the sun! It had risen over the hill Vanderspool had designated as “Charlie” during mission training and was spearing him with its rays.
That was the moment when Raynor discovered it was possible to be alive and in hell at the same time. Because as he struggled to summon some saliva in his bone-dry mouth it became apparent that he was dangling from a rope. A fact made even more obvious when a breeze caused his body to spin. His harness creaked in protest. Oh, God.
It wasn’t long before Raynor realized that he wasn’t alone. A prisoner named Cole Hickson, a twenty-year-old soldier who had been captured during a skirmish in the zone, was suspended, unconscious and badly beaten, off to Raynor’s left. They had shared a cell, and just before Raynor was taken out to be interrogated, Hickson had offered some sage advice. “Try to hide, if you can. Find spider holes in your mind, and crawl into them.”
That advice had carried Raynor through the worst parts of the torture. He had been trained at boot camp to withstand interrogation techniques, but he knew a person could easily forget those skills in the presence of physical pain. He hoped Hickson would survive, but more than that, he hoped the mission to save the POWs would be a success, so that if he himself died, it would be for something.
But t
hat seemed unlikely as Raynor looked past Hickson and saw the bird-pecked remains of a third man. He was little more than a tattered skeleton. They were hanging from spokes attached to a central column. It squeaked as the wind attempted to turn it. Then, as the breeze grew stronger and the spokes began to rotate in earnest, shadows flickered across the camp below.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the display was intended to instill fear in the prisoners. Raynor could see a line of POWs shuffling along below, and noticed that none of them were looking up. They had no desire to be reminded of where they were or what could happen to them. And for good reason.
As the sun continued to crawl across the sky Raynor drifted in and out of consciousness from time to time. Eventually a number of such interludes blended together to become one endless nightmare. Something important was supposed to happen once darkness fell, but for the life of him, Raynor couldn’t remember what.
FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
A force of unseen Avengers was flying cover as the dropships waited to be loaded. The Sweetie Pie’s engines were idling, the ramp was down, and the STM platoon was beginning to board. Other dropships, those that would fly in empty to pick up the POWs, were on standby, and would remain so until all the troops were in the air and on their way.
It had been a mistake to let Raynor go. That was something Tychus had come to realize as he watched the soldiers enter the ship. Because while he had plenty of leadership experience, Tychus had never been in command of a unit larger than a squad before. Had Raynor been present, he would have been the logical person to lead the first squad. And handle the sort of pissy personnel issues that Tychus wasn’t very good at.
He was also concerned about Raynor. What if the ruse hadn’t been successful? All he knew was that Raynor had landed outside the zone without incident, but what happened after that was still unknown.
Making the situation worse was the fact that the platoon was supposed to land on three different objectives. A plan that required him to delegate authority to his squad leaders, which went against all his instincts and put him on edge.
In Raynor’s absence, Tychus had been forced to choose between Harnack, Zander, or Ward to lead the first squad. Various arguments could be made for each one. But given that Harnack was too impulsive, and Ward was arguably suicidal, the logical choice was Zander.
Tychus’s thoughts were interrupted as a suit of armor lurched out of the surrounding gloom. “Excuse me, Sergeant,” Speer said, “would you unload your troops please? I have a wide shot already, but I’d like to shoot something tight as they come up the ramp, so I can change it up later on.”
A moment of ominous silence passed as Tychus sought to control his temper and failed. “Are you stupid?” he demanded angrily. “Or crazy? No, you fekkin’ asshole, I won’t unload the troops! Now get outta my face.”
Speer had been on the receiving end of the sergeant’s wrath before and had a very thick skin. “Okay,” he replied cheerfully. “How ’bout a quick sound bite then?”
Tychus opened his mouth to release a blast of profanity that would take the finish off Speer’s armor, but the reporter was already backing away. “Just kidding, Sarge … just kidding,” the civilian said as he turned away from the ramp.
Tychus was still mumbling under his breath as he boarded the Sweetie Pie. Due to the jet packs on their suits, none of the soldiers could sit, but they could lock their joints and relax inside their hardskins during the trip.
Then it was time to give the kind of rousing speech officers like Quigby specialized in. “Okay,” Tychus said. “Remember the plan, watch your six, and don’t shoot Jimmy or any of the POWs. You got any questions? No? I’ll see you on the ground.”
The dropships were in the air five minutes later, running with the lights off as they turned toward the east. That was when the first part of the hour-long flight began. At that point each soldier was a prisoner to his or her hopes and fears as the dropship’s engines whined and the vessel bored a hole through the darkness.
All except for Harnack that is, who had convinced Feek to equip his armor with some unauthorized memory and a closed circuit playback capability. So while his comrades wrestled with their personal demons, Hank was watching a personalized video mix on his HUD and bobbing his head in rhythm to the music.
Tychus found out about the vid mix the same day he discovered Doc had been crab-free for twelve hours, that Ward had tiny pictures of his wife and children affixed along the upper edge of his visor, and that Zander was carrying ten grenades over his authorized load out. Weight a larger man wouldn’t have been able to get away with. What Tychus didn’t know was how many of his platoon would be coming back or why part of him cared.
After what seemed like an eternity the pilot’s deliberately neutral voice came over the comm channel in Tychus’s helmet. “We’re ten minutes from the drop zone … repeat, ten out. Give the KMs my best. Over.”
Rather than remain aboard the Sweetie Pie and supervise the jump, Tychus had granted himself the privilege of being the first person to drop, and therefore the first to land. Because if something went wrong, he figured it would go wrong right away, and he wanted to be there to deal with it.
After the long wait Tychus was conscious of the tension he always felt just prior to combat, but a sense of anticipation as well, since it would feel good to do something for a change. He was eager to find out if Raynor had succeeded in infiltrating the camp, and if he’d been able to warn the POWs. Tychus felt pretty good about the odds; knowing Jim, the poor bastards had been briefed, re-briefed, and alphabetized!
The thought brought a smile to Tychus’s face as the dropship entered a tight turn, the deck tilted under his boots, and the final seconds ticked away. “Three! Two! One!” The jump master brought her hand down and Tychus dropped into the abyss. The sun was busy shining on the other side of the planet, but two moons were up and casting a ghostly glow over the landscape below.
It was pitch black due to a high overcast, or would have been, without the technology that was available to him. Tychus was gratified to see both his night-vision display and a computer-generated terrain map appear on his HUD. He was slated to land on Hill Bravo. The movements were so automatic by that time that the glowing target seemed to shift toward him rather than the other way around. The altimeter unwound, the jet pack fired, and Tychus took hold of the weapon that was clipped to his chest.
His boots hit seconds later, as a green Kel-Morian turned toward the unexpected threat, and shook spastically as half a dozen spikes hit his chest. “Hello,” Tychus said to no one in particular. “That was for Captain Hobarth. No need to get up … I’ll let your boss know I’m here.”
KEL-MORIAN INTERNMENT CAMP-36, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
The gently spinning world was black with occasional blips of light. Raynor was lost, and had been for hours by then. He was aware of a sense of expectation, however, although it wasn’t until he saw flashes of light on the surrounding hilltops and heard a series of resonant booms that he remembered why. The platoon was landing!
The next fifteen minutes were a mix of excitement and fear as Raynor heard gunfire, saw tracers pass within feet of him, and wondered if one of his squad mates was going to shoot him. Then he heard confused shouting and felt a series of jerks as he was lowered to the ground. Tychus was waiting in the glow created by four suit lights as members of the first squad gathered around. Was that concern on his face? “Enough hanging around,” the platoon leader said as he cut Raynor free. “It’s time for you to go to work.”
Raynor nearly choked as Doc gave him a sip of water. “It’s nice to see you, too,” Raynor said, once he had recovered.
“Boy, Raynor, you’re looking pretty sexy in those trunks,” Ward chided.
“I don’t want to look,” Zander put in. “I’ll never get the image out of my head.”
“What the fekk is this?” Tychus demanded, as he eyed the people around him. “A tea party? We have POWs to loa
d. Get to work.”
As the others left, Tychus put a huge arm around Raynor’s shoulders and helped him walk. “You done good,” Tychus said gruffly. “Thanks to you the POWs are ready to go.”
Raynor stopped short and looked back at Hickson, who was being carried away on a stretcher. He was awake now, and even managed a wave.
Raynor gave him a nod, took a shallow, excruciating breath, and allowed himself to be led away. Just then three Hellhounds broke through the screen of Avengers circling above and blew one of the incoming dropships out of the sky. Huge chunks of flaming debris cartwheeled down and cut one of the buildings in two. That triggered a fire, which lit up the night. “Cap-One to Sierra-Six,” a voice said, as a second dropship went down. “I’m sorry to say that we have ten bandits at angels five. Your buses are turning back. They’ll try again later. Over.”
“Roger that, Cap-One,” Tychus said, and swore once the connection was broken.
“The dropships aren’t coming, are they?” Raynor inquired.
“No,” Tychus replied, as a Hellhound cut across the valley, guns spraying red death at the ground below. “They were forced to turn back.”
“I had a good view from up there,” Raynor said, as he jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “The KMs have quite a few trucks on the base and some other vehicles, too. Let’s load ’em up and haul ass.”
Tychus frowned doubtfully. “To where?”
“The disputed zone,” Raynor replied. “It sucks, but it’s better than this.”
A series of rockets slammed into the camp as if to emphasize Raynor’s point. It was clear that the KMs planned to kill the POWs rather than allow them to escape. “Roger that,” Tychus said calmly. “We’ll give it a try. And find some clothes. You look like shit.”
Max Speer had been aboard the single dropship that managed to touch down safely. He smiled broadly and continued to record as the soldiers departed.
Heaven’s Devils Page 23
