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Chapter Five
Kalivstok III, Kalivostok System
KALCOM, Kalivstok Command
The scent of summer hissed through the synthetic window shades. Faint echoes of a distant thunderstorm rumbled. The air had a tense feel, with too much humidity. It smelled like rain.
A dozen officers stood at a wafer-thin projection table. Eleven of them wore the uniform of the Kalivostok planetary militia. Colonel Clarke was the only one in the arctic-gray Vasilov Army uniform.
The projection was a simple top-down view. Each quarter of the table was an aerial shot of the area near the stargates. It showed terraces, trenches, turrets, minefields—everything that centuries of gate warfare had taught them.
And, thought Clarke, everything they'd struggle to forget.
"Clarke, your troops will rotate away from the Squire outgate and hold the Kalivostok interstellar gate. Colonel Huotomaki will bring in the 11th Regiment," General Makinen said. He was an obese officer, beyond obese, to the point where he struggled to stand. He wheezed and leaned on the table. "Colonel Carco, the Sixth Light Regiment will hold the Kali-Squire link, and Colonel Karling, the Ninth Grenadiers are on the Squire-Kali link. We've got another dozen regiments on call for defensive duty."
"General, I don't see the necessity of a Vasilov unit here," Colonel Carco said. "Kalivostok troops have held these gates for generations. There are other duties they can fulfill, especially with the reputation they're known for."
"Colonel, you have an issue with my troops, you bring it to me," Colonel Clarke said. He raised his chin and leaned forward on the table.
"Actually, Colonel I do—"Carco said, but was cut off.
"I don't see an issue," Karling said. He opened his hands and shrugged. "They served with distinction on Lishun Delta."
Carco cleared his throat and glared at Clarke. "Past deeds don't mean shit."
"Now, Colonel!" Karling said. He laughed a nervous laugh. "They've hardly had the time to prove themselves."
Clarke said nothing.
"I think they've proven something here," Carco said. "It remains to be seen if they can prove themselves on the battlefield."
"Especially without tanks. Why, they'll have to walk!" a chubby-faced colonel said.
The officers smiled at Clarke. They had humor on their faces, as if watching a sideshow. It was a mild interest in something unique that would go away soon enough. General Makinen looked on without a smile.
Clarke looked down at the board.
He's right, Clarke thought, and we're not doing ourselves any favors here.
"Also," General Makinen added, "we're calling up the reserves. VASCOM is concerned about the Billings incident. The Kadan are still probing Lishun Delta, but it seems likely that another planet will be hit."
"How does that impact us?" Karling said. He crossed his arms and put on a skeptical smile. "Any stargate that comes in through Squire eventually passes a system lacking atmosphere. It's impossible. No one can move an army in vacuum suits. Not even the Kadan. Whatever they could bring through, we'd smash. We're as safe as ever here; the outgate back toward Vasilov space is the only hole. I'm more afraid of raids from the other dukes! We're hardly at war any longer. With the threat of raids from Duke Kell, well, I can't risk my own troops. Those men have a barony to defend, homes to defend, families."
"Of course, just their homes," Carco added slowly. "But we can't leave any opening. We should put another regiment on Squire."
General Makinen wheezed and pointed at the map with a stubby finger. "Colonel Clarke and his troops are in reserve. Duke Kornilov has made his wishes clear. If this system is attacked, we'll let the hostiles take Squire and hold them here. If another duke does raid Kalivostok, they'll find things rather difficult. This isn't the old days."
Carco pointed at the aerial map of the defenses on Squire. "General, with all due respect, we need to hold Squire as long as—"
"And we shall," General Makinen said. "But the duke's orders stand. Dismissed, gentlemen. Colonel Clarke, remain."
The colonels filtered out of the room in small clusters. Only Colonel Carco marched out alone. The summer breeze rolled in behind them, and the room felt cooler.
General Makinen wiped his forehead and sat heavily on a chair.
"You look like shit, Maki," Clarke said. He walked over to the general.
"No need to remind me, Cole. You're still ugly, you know that, right?" General Makinen grinned and slapped Clarke on the leg.
"What'd VASCOM really say?"
General Makinen looked up at Clarke and then back down again. "Not a goddamn thing. I told them of Billings, and they took it under advisement."
Clarke sat on the edge of the table. The breeze washed in. He closed his eyes and enjoyed it. A bugle sounded outside, followed by the sound of marching feet.
"Changing of the guard," General Makinen said. "Someday they're gonna change us out."
Clarke snorted. "Not likely. Me maybe, but not you. You're one of the best strategists we have."
"I'm an obese, combat-wounded officer on his last command," General Makinen said. He sighed and sat his chubby hands on his waist. His face broke into a grimace of pain. "You'd think with all the modern marvels, they could rebuild a spine properly. God, what I'd give to walk like I used to."
Clarke opened his mouth to speak but stopped. What could he say?
"The diplomats opened a channel with the Kadan."
Clarke looked up. "Direct?"
"Through the Lokeen."
"You don't sound convinced."
General Makinen rolled his eyes. "They want Lishun Delta."
"That settles it then, eh?"
"Well, we still don't know what the hell they want. Lokeen say that the Kadan will expand until halted. They want Lishun Delta because we have it. But something's different now. Before, they just probed the border, held us up. Now though, now they're fighting hard. They're risking much; what if the Lokeen come in on our side? Or one of the other nonaligned races? What changed? Why risk this conflict?"
Clarke glanced at General Makinen. "You know something?"
"A hunch."
"On a hunch, we stole that flag at the academy. A damn good hunch," Colonel Clarke said. He smiled at the memory of being a cadet. The hunch wasn't a hunch but very good planning.
General Makinen shifted in his chair. "Your unit, is the armor effective? Are the soldiers capable?"
"What about that hunch?"
"It's just a hunch, nothing more." General Makinen grinned. "C'mon Cole, is your armor all the rumors say it is?"
"In case you haven't noticed, we don't have any armor."
"I'm working on that," General Makinen grumbled.
"But yes. I think our armor is more than what people say it is."
"Stargate warfare is defensive. If you can hold the gate—"
"—you can hold the planet. I know, Maki, but what if you can't? Look at Lishun Delta."
"I know, I know. But Kalivostok has better defenses, better weather, plentiful supplies. I'd be hard-pressed to let tanks run loose here. Squire...well, go have fun."
Clarke picked up the sarcasm. He'd already spent enough time on Squire to know it wasn't any fun. "Bolt the tanks down on a stargate and they're useless, but given a fluid situation..."
"I know, I know. But Cole, these people don't want to spend money on an untested technology."
"By the time they need to test it, it'll be too late."
Neither man said anything. A truck rumbled by in the distance. The sun peeked behind a cloud and the room grew dark before fading back in to the light.
"Cole, I'm getting complaints about your troops. They've been given extra leeway because of their performance on Lishun Delta, but people won't stand for a pack of rowdy criminals."
Clarke took a deep breath. "We're tightening rotations, shortening leave, and keeping them out of the, uh, rougher establishments."
"Well, do something. The duke and a
few of the nobles are taking notice. They'll have no issue tossing them all into a prison and adding Warden to your title."
"I understand, Maki. They're fighters. Give us that armor, and they'll surprise you."
General Makinen chewed on his lip and nodded. "There's a colonel named Wastava; he's the most obstinate bureaucrat in the world. But he's honest and efficient."
"So I get my tanks?"
"Go through Wastava. He's a pain in the ass, but he knows the proper channels."
Colonel Clarke turned away so that General Makinen couldn't see him smile.
"You're grinning like an idiot, I can tell."
Clarke turned around and stuck out his hand. "Maki, I owe you one."
General Makinen shook his hand. "Yes, you do. But hopefully it's not a favor I'll need. Now get out of here."
Clarke saluted and marched toward the door.
"Cole?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Carco's an asshole. You won't like him. He won't like you. But you can trust him. Karling, on the other hand, is a silver fox. Watch your ass."
Clarke nodded and stepped out into the hall. A hunch, he thought. Just a hunch...
He walked through the breeze and marveled again at the smells of life. He pulled out his comm pad and called Major Bresov, his supply officer. "Major, get a hold of Colonel Wastava with Planetary Supply. We're getting our tanks."
#
Chapter Six
Kalivostok III, Kalivostok System
Pushkin Industrial-Commerical District
When Tomi and the rest of his squad came back onto Kalivostok, they were little more than laborers. They spent the days digging, hauling, moving, and preparing Camp Richard. They bristled at being locked down, but they were assured that once the locals calmed down they could go back out.
After three weeks they received the armor. The units were primer gray, rough on the edges, and Tomi thoroughly loved them. They spent the next week driving, learning, studying, and finding every quirk that the armor had. What appeared to be a perfect tank had its flaws. Tomi couldn't wait to get them out and really tear loose on Squire.
Then, finally, after a week of training, they were let off of Camp Richard. Mick led the group into an older commercial district and through a wide set of double doors. They drank like parched wanderers before finally spreading out into the bar.
They barely had a chance to stand at the bar when Puck came past with a platter of shot glasses. One for each of the crew, and a solid half dozen just for Puck.
Tomi stood on shaky legs and missed the reduced gravity from Squire. He'd spent most of the last week sitting inside of his tank. They'd named it Bulldog, of course, after his last tank—God bless her soul. Now he knew that some blue blooded bastard was driving her on Lishun Delta.
He sipped his beer and watched Mick slam down a glass as he arm-wrestled a soldier from the Sixth Light Regiment.
Then the betting started.
In the center of the smoke-hazed bar was an elevated ring surrounded by three ropes. Two boxers sparred in the center. Alkaline-white light blared down on them. A chubby announcer called out the blows.
Sergeant Mick stood shoulder to shoulder with a group of men. He grinned and clapped his hands. "Five rounds? Or you sons a bitches wanna go six?"
"We'll take six. The Sixth Light Regiment always goes all the way." The man wore a confident smile as crisp as his buzzcut.
Sergeant Mick bellowed with laughter. He slapped the man on the shoulder. "Fine, fine. Your boys get with my boys, we'll bet it all out."
"First knockout?"
Mick wiped his lips. "Yah, first knockout."
Hess and Wellington broke away from the group and leaned close in with a pack of soldiers from the Sixth.
Hutchins stomped past the man with the buzzcut. His well-muscled arms glistened in the moist air. "You're mine, boy!"
Tomi took a good swig of his drink and suppressed a gag. Whatever they called the beer here, it wasn't very good. He watched with mild interest as one of the fighters drove an uppercut into the other.
The man collapsed like a sack of potatoes.
The crowd roared out, and credit chips exchanged hands.
Tomi watched them drag the loser out of the ring. He shuddered a bit; he wasn't much of a fighter.
Hess ran up to Tomi. "Gimme yer wallet. We're doing a tank bet. Need more."
"What?" Tomi said.
Hess didn't wait for a reply but instead dug a hand into Tomi's pocket. He checked the credit limit and grinned at Tomi. "You need to start spending your money. This works, though. Thanks!"
Tomi didn't know what to say. He watched Hess run back to the betting group and hoped whoever was brawling was good enough to win.
Mueller sat next to Bosovitz and Gous. In front of them was a mound of square-packed beer cans, toppled shot glasses, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. Gous snored loudly. Bosovitz simply hiccupped over and over.
Mueller tried to stand. He steadied himself as if on a wobbly ship. "Uh-oh, uh-oh."
Kallio walked by and pushed Mueller back into his seat. "Sitdownyadumbshit," she said quickly.
The PA system crackled. Everyone turned to look up at the viewscreen. It was smoke-stained, with a crack in one corner. The face of the chubby announcer came up wide.
"Time for the next brawl! Oh boy, it's a good one! First up is six rounds with the 19th ACR versus the Sixth Light Infantry. Let me, oh yes, let me tell you! We've got the worst that the Vasilov can give, fighting against the hometown favorites!"
Cheers rose from the crowd. Someone threw a can of beer at the display.
Tomi grinned and took another drink. He'd seen Mick fight often enough to know this would be good. But of course, the last round would be Hutchins. He always came up last. Puck in the first round, maybe? Yes, Puck for sure, or Veriha. Someone light on their feet.
Mick half jogged, half stumbled over to Tomi. Kallio was right behind. "Listen up, Tomi-boy!"
The smell of raw alcohol followed behind Mick. His skin was wet with perspiration.
"Puck is fucked," Mick said. He burped loudly.
"Eh?" Tomi said.
Kallio said, "He got shitfaced, he's passed out in a urinal."
"Well, he's not in it anymore, but he was," Mick said.
Tomi grinned.
"Now here," Kallio said. She jammed a pill into Tomi's mouth. "Swallow that."
Tomi half choked on it and then took a swig to chase it down. "What's that?"
"Painkiller."
"What for?"
Mick grinned. "You're up for the first two rounds."
Tomi swallowed hard again and followed it up with a deep swig. He emptied the square-pack can and tossed it into the heap. "But, I'm—"
Mick finished his sentence: "—going to fight two rounds." He leaned in and pulled Tomi close. "Now listen, you dance for two rounds. Got it? Just don't get knocked out, and don't knock him out. But make it look like you're trying."
"But I can hardly walk! The gravity—"
"—got us a much better payout," Kallio said.
Mick clapped Tomi on the shoulder. "Just don't get hit."
Tomi stood dumbfounded.
"C'mon!" Kallio said. She shoved Tomi right behind Mick.
They stripped shirts off and taped on a set of boxing gloves. Then, before Tomi knew it, he was standing next to Mick and Hutchins. Mick swayed, while Hutch was solid as a brick.
Tomi tasted fear in his throat. His stomach rumbled, the color drained from his face, a wave of tiredness rolled over him. All he wanted to do was go to sleep. Sleep for sure, I'll be asleep on that mat in about five seconds. He glanced at the first man from the Sixth, and his jaw dropped. The first man was the largest—like a human tree trunk. "Holy shit. Look at the size of him. Mick?"
Mick was busy grinning at the crowd and pumping his arms. "You'll be fine! Just don't get hit! Two minutes, then you get a minute, then two minutes more. Then I come in. We're counting on you,
all of us."
Tomi tapped his boxing gloves together. They weren't as soft as he thought they should be.
The speakers crackled and the crowd roared. The screen above was split, with each team of three on one side. Odds were listed just below. The home team, the Sixth Light Infantry, was favored five to one. Odds scrolled below it, showing payouts in various rounds.
Tomi was sitting at a cool twelve to one in the first round and twenty-four to one in the second.
The ring cleared except for a referee in a week-old beard and Tomi's opponent. Mick tumbled down from the ropes. His hand shot out, and he barely caught himself before smashing headfirst into the ground.
For a second, Mick caught Tomi's eye. Was he really that drunk? He shot his eyes up to the screen. The odds kept changing; the fourth round was listed as the worst for the 19th. Mick's last round.
"Fighters up!" the referee said. "Marco! Tomi!"
Tomi walked up to the center. His slight buzz was totally gone. Opposite him was a slender man, bared to the chest, with stout arms and a crooked nose. One ear was half gone with the telltale mark of a veteran of the campaigns on Lishun Delta. He glared at Tomi.
The referee grabbed the gloves of both fighters. He spoke quickly. "Two minutes. Keep it above the belt." He glanced at Tomi. "A technical is three falls."
"Only gonna need one," Marco said.
The referee dropped their gloves. "Back to your corners!"
Tomi walked backward to his corner. Mick and Hutchins were hollering at him about dancing, moving his feet, weaving, and being like a bee. All he could focus on was the dirty, red gloves on Marco's hands.
The bell clanged.
Marco raced out from his corner. He charged ahead, with one glove ready to strike. He wore a grin on his face.
Tomi ran with his arms wide. He sprinted to one side of the ring, and the moment he paused to look, Marco swung a wild punch. Tomi ducked it, stumbled, rolled onto his back and was up again a second later.
The crowd was wild with laughter, anger, and disbelief. The small contingent from the 19th ACR hooted and cheered. Mick was laughing so hard he fell down and couldn't get back up.
Steel Storm (Steel Legion Book 2) Page 3
