“Sit down, Doctor,” Judge Epstein said softly. Vinces was about to protest but Epstein silenced him with a wave of his hand. “Mr. Vinces, Ms. Fortescue, I order you to return to BHHEI forthwith and rewrite that agency’s charter to specifically prohibit experimentation of any kind on any alien being with an intelligence level above that of a tomato. You will submit it to this court within two weeks for review and approval. This case is dismissed,” he announced, slamming his hand on his desk.
Outside the building, Conorado caught up with Dr. Abraham and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I am very sorry about Dr. Hoxey, sir. I’m sorry she passed on and I am sorry if what I did contributed to that in any way.”
“Captain, thank you. Thelma was a hard person to get to know but once you did . . .” He shrugged. “I appreciate what you did on the station, Captain. Thelma was wrong, that’s all there is to it.”
“Thank you, Doctor. And thanks for coming down here this morning. That took some real courage.” They shook hands.
“Well, Lew, when do you head back to 34th FIST?” Tuit asked when Conorado rejoined the others.
“Soon as I can, but not before I take care of some unfinished business, Hank.”
“And what might that be?”
“I’m going to see Jennifer Lenfen’s parents.”
“Right. I’ll go with you,” Tuit responded, clapping Conorado on the back.
CHAPTER
* * *
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Lesser Imam, Lesser Imam!” First Acolyte Fakir burst into what had been his office, which, now that he shared it, he mostly avoided. He waved a flimsy in his hand.
Acting Lesser Imam Bladon looked up from the training plan he and his fire team leaders were reviewing. “First Acolyte,” he calmly acknowledged, though Fakir’s excitement indicated pending action.
“Lesser Imam, the demons are striking Blessing Waters at this time.” He thrust the flimsy at Bladon.
Still calm on the outside, Bladon took the flimsy and scanned it. The noted time of receipt showed the message was only two minutes old. Place of transmission verified it came from the village of Blessing Waters. The message itself was terse: “Demons are attacking. Help us ere we all die.”
That was it.
Bladon stood. “Rat, inform Platoon and see if the string-of-pearls shows anything. Kerr, get our people ready to move out. Chan, get transport. First Acolyte, have your people assemble in the courtyard, ready to move. I want us on the way within five minutes.” He was talking to himself on the last sentence, because each man to whom he gave an order left the office immediately.
Two minutes after Fakir ran in with the message, the last Soldiers of the Lord were scrambling into the company formation, urged on by the Marines. The garrison’s armored personnel carriers were manned and rumbling to life. Corporal “Rat” Linsman was intently studying the data flow the Grandar Bay was transmitting to his UPUD, Mark III.
“Report!” Bladon commanded before he even reached his position in front of the company.
“First platoon,” PFC MacIlargie eagle-eyed a late arriver, “all present and accounted for!”
“Second platoon, ready to mount up,” Corporal Kerr announced.
“Third platoon?” Corporal Chan was running to his position from the APCs.
“Third platoon, all present!” PFC Longfellow shouted.
“Transport!” Bladon cried.
Chan, now in place in front of his platoon, glanced at the APCs. “Transport ready,” he replied.
“Mount up!”
Under the direction of the Marines, the soldiers of the 157th Defense Garrison boarded their assigned vehicles in much better order than they would have a few days earlier.
“Listen up, don’t interrupt,” Bladon said over the squad circuit as he and Linsman headed toward their APC. He wanted his Marines to know everything they could. “Got anything?” he asked Linsman.
“Looks like it’s still in progress,” Linsman answered without taking his eyes from the UPUD display.
“How many are there and what’s their disposition?” The two Marines boarded the APC and strapped themselves in.
Linsman shook his head. “Can’t tell, Skinks don’t show up well in infrared. Take a look.” He tapped a button to switch the display from numerical data to visual and handed the UPUD to Bladon. “I think all those red spots are civilians.”
“Report,” Bladon ordered as he accepted the UPUD.
In a moment all the Marines reported their soldiers were aboard the APCs and strapped in.
“Move out,” he ordered on the company command circuit.
In the Army of the Lord, the command officers and religious officers of a defense garrison company were tied into a comm net—enlisted men, even noncommissioned officers, weren’t. The APCs jerked and moved out to form in three parallel lines, tracks and wheels rumbling over the ground as they picked up speed. Conversation inside them was impossible except over the helmet comms.
Bladon studied the display for a moment, then swore under his breath. They had to go in blind. All he could do was see where the red dots were, what direction they ran in—the ones that ran rather than trying to hide—and try to extrapolate from that where the Skinks were. No way to tell how many there were, or whether any of them were actually chasing the fleeing civilians.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Linsman looked at the display. A dot, larger and brighter than the dots he interpreted as civilians, had entered the display. He took the UPUD and tapped the button to resume the numerical data flow.
“Shit,” he swore. “It’s a vehicle. String-of-pearls says it doesn’t return an IFF signal.”
“Must be one of theirs,” Bladon murmured.
Linsman nodded. “Think they’ve got that armor-killer weapon?” he asked.
“It’s possible.” Bladon thought about it. Nobody knew what the range of that weapon was, or at least he didn’t. It had fired at them at eight hundred meters in the Swamp of Perdition. They didn’t know how far away it was when it killed the Dragons. He toggled on his HUD map and set it to a scale that showed the garrison, the village, and their position. To reach the village, they had to cross over a row of small hills—the map labled them “Martyrs Mounts”—that ran at a tangential angle to their line of approach. The hills were two kilometers from the village, and they were still five klicks from the hills.
“There are three of them now,” Linsman said. “Headed into the village center.”
Fakir was on a different APC. Bladon toggled to the command frequency to talk to him. He told Fakir which map he was using and updated him on what was happening in the village. Then he told him to have the vehicles keep the Martyrs Mounts between them and the village until they were as close to it as they could get, and he gave Fakir the coordinates. That was where they’d dismount. Only then did he report the presence of vehicles to third platoon headquarters and request instructions.
The APCs pitched as they turned onto their new vector.
The Marines ordered the soldiers to spread out and stay below the crest of the hills. They themselves went the rest of the way to where they could observe.
Blessing Waters was home to four hundred people, five hundred if the outlying households were included. Corporal Doyle counted five spires, a minaret, and an onion dome that he assumed was also a place of worship. He wondered how so few people could support so many temples. A movement caught his eye, and he forgot all about the ways of the religious; a vehicle crashed through a house on the fringe of town, shattering it. He looked more widely and spotted two more armored vehicles smashing through the village. One of the steeples toppled as he watched.
Armored vehicles. On Diamunde six FISTs went up against several armored divisions to kick open the door for the army, but he had been the company’s chief clerk and didn’t participate in the combat. But he’d heard about it, and he was the one who processed the casualty reports.
There was armor down there. He
gripped his blaster and felt sick—they didn’t have weapons that could defeat armor. Even the Army of the Lord APCs only had antipersonnel weapons; they’d never had to fight armor. If the Skinks spotted the Marines on the hills and came after them, they wouldn’t be able to defend themselves. Doyle fought down the bile that rose; it wouldn’t do to let the soldiers he was supposed to be leading know it—they had to think he was confident and competent.
On Diamunde, Lance Corporal Schultz had been in the thick of the fighting, even managed to take out a tank with his blaster. Not directly, though. He was trying to burn through the turret hatch when a crewman opened a forward hatch to take him out. He had flamed that crewman, then jammed his blaster through the open hatch before anyone inside could close it and fired until he’d killed the crew and melted the tank’s electronics. But Schultz harbored no delusions about being able to kill one of the Skink armored vehicles with only his blaster. These three scared him more than the divisions of tanks he’d faced on Diamunde.
Corporal Kerr missed that action because he was still recuperating. But he knew they needed weapons they didn’t have to defeat these tanks.
As soon as Acting Lesser Imam Bladon visually confirmed that the vehicles were armor, he reported to third platoon. Gunny Bass replied that Raptors were orbiting on ready station and he’d get them headed his way.
Bladon watched the scene a klick and a half away and swore to himself in a constant stream. He didn’t dare move his company in until the tanks were dead. Through his magnifier shield he could make out dun-colored figures here and there, dartng in and out of view. They seemed to be running about randomly, searching and pursuing. Bodies lay flung about, dead civilians. He was afraid that by the time he and his troops got to the village, most of the civilians would be dead.
“One-five-seven, this is your Bluebird of Happiness,” a voice interrupted Bladon’s swearing. “I have you on visual. That is you, isn’t it?”
“Bluebird, stand by for confirm,” Bladon said. He turned around, used his infra to make sure nobody was in his line of sight, and fired his blaster downhill.
“Ooh-ee, One-five-seven, that’s a mighty pretty shoulder flame you’ve got there.”
Bladon felt relief. “Visual confirmed,” he said. He hadn’t told the Bluebird pilot what he was using as a visual signal; the pilot had to identify it and wait for his confirmation. That way no enemy could confuse the pilot by using the same signal to give a false position.
“I show three vehicles in the town,” the pilot said. “That what you need taken care of?”
“That’s affirmative, Bluebird. All the good guys are near my confirm. Be careful, civilians are getting slaughtered by the bad guys.”
“Roger that, One-five-seven. I’m using the SOP to guide our goodies. The squids get the blame if any noncombatants get hit.”
“You’re wasting time, Bluebird. Civilians are getting killed.”
“Roger, Marine. As soon as we’re lined up.” While Bluebird lead was talking, he and his wingman had locked their missiles’ guidance systems into the string-of-pearls. They punched in their designated targets, pointed their noses toward the Martyrs Mounts, then they each fired two missiles that swooped up over the hills and arrowed at the village. Guided by the ring of surveillance satellites, they altered vector and sped toward the rampaging tanks. One missile struck close enough to tear the treads off its target and nearly knock it onto its side. Another hit the engine compartment of its target and killed it. The third tank took a direct hit on its turret and erupted. The final missile made a radical, last instant course correction and plunged into the side of the crippled tank, killing it.
“Bluebird of Happiness, paint three tanks on your forehead,” Bladon said, barely suppressing a cheer. “If I ever run into you in a civilian bar, I owe you and your wingman a drink or three.”
“Damn! Why is it every time I go on an infantry support mission the mud commander is enlisted and can’t buy me a drink in the officers club?” Bluebird said. “Hey, you ever go for a commission, I’ll buy you a drink in the O-club.” Then more seriously, “Listen, One-five-seven, we’ve got more missiles, we just refueled, and mom isn’t expecting us for dinner right away. Want us to stick around just in case?”
“I’d love to have your company, Bluebird. Here are my command and all-hands freqs.” Bladon sent them. Now the two Raptors could monitor what the troops on the ground were doing and not have to wait for a call if they needed help in a hurry.
Bladon switched to the all-hands frequency. “Saddle up, we’re moving in. Contingency Charlie.” Contingency Charlie had the APCs moving in support of the infantry.
“If they’ve got one of those weapons,” Kerr said on the squad circuit, “they’ll start taking out the APCs.”
“That’s right,” Bladon replied. “We can save the infantry if they do.” His map showed irregularities in the ground that the infantry could use to avoid the line of sight to the Skinks.
The 157th Defense Garrison got on line and moved over the hills. Once on the flat, the Marines urged them into a trot. The APCs rumbled along, dispersed between squads. They had covered half the distance before the Skinks who had gathered around the nearest killed tank became aware of them. There were a few seconds of apparent confusion among the Skinks, then they began to run into the ruined village.
“Flame them!” Bladon shouted.
The Marines dropped into firing positions and took careful aim. Their fusillade was rewarded with several flashes from vaporizing Skinks. Then no more Skinks were in sight. The Soldiers of the Lord were impressed by both the range and accuracy of the Marines’ fire.
“Move out!” Bladon ordered on the all-hands circuit. “Double time!”
They all sprinted forward.
“Lesser Imam,” Fakir panted into the command circuit, “shouldn’t we board the APCs? We can catch them better in the vehicles than on foot.”
“We stay spread out,” Bladon replied. There was still a chance the Skinks had that weapon, and he didn’t want to risk losing half a platoon to one shot.
But the Skinks didn’t have that weapon, whatever it was. Or chose not to use it. The Marines and their charges ran through the village and into a forest beyond it without seeing any more Skinks. They continued into the forest for half a kilometer before Gunny Bass ordered them to turn back and see what they could do for the civilian survivors.
Blessing Waters was thoroughly devastated. More than a quarter of the buildings were knocked down and many others had received damage, some severe, from the three tanks. Bladon assigned Linsman to set a platoon in defensive positions between the village and the forest, and observation posts on other possible approaches. Then he had the rest of the company gather the injured people in one place, where he and the rest of the Marines used their knives to dig any still-active acid out of their wounds. Once the wounded were gathered for care, Bladon set the soldiers to work gathering corpses near the village graveyard for burial. The Marines did their best to ignore the screams and whimpers of the wounded, and the wails of the survivors crying over their dead. Of four hundred residents, more than half had been killed in the raid. When visitors from the outlying homesteads were included, there were nearly three hundred fatalities.
The Skinks didn’t return.
Second squad wasn’t unique in having problems integrating into command and leadership positions with the Army of the Lord’s Defense Garrisons. A hundred kilometers from the 157th, first squad had difficulties.
“Acting Lesser Imam,” Friar Acolyte Archangel Raphael said from the doorway of the office of the commander of the 241st Defense Garrison.
Sergeant Ratliff looked up from the contingency operation plans he and Lesser Imam Yasith, the garrison’s regular commander, were refining. He didn’t like Friar Acolyte Archangel Raphael, who constantly interjected himself into strictly military matters.
“I bring a message for Lesser Imam Yasith. It has to do with danger to the Faithful.”
/> “Come.” Ratliff didn’t have the patience to grant the priest any more than the bare minimum of courtesy a commander owed to an obstreperous subordinate.
Archangel Raphael entered the office and thrust a flimsy at Yasith.
The Kingdomite read it quickly and handed it to Ratliff. “We need to move fast,” he said.
Ratliff read the brief message. It was from the village of Kibbutz Aviv, which was under attack. The message was five minutes old. It had been received in the room directly outside the commander’s office.
“Form up the garrison for immediate movement,” Ratliff told Yasith. As he brushed past Archangel Raphael he said, “This message is five minutes old. That’s not acceptable. People—your people—are dying.” He got on his comm and began issuing orders to his Marines as he made his way to the parade ground outside of the garrison compound.
Archangel Raphael scurried to keep up. “It was necessary for me to confirm the message,” he said harshly.
“Confirmation is a military responsibility. We would already be on the way if you’d given me that message as soon as it came in.”
Starfist: Kingdom's Swords Page 31
