The five men who were about to sacrifice their lives to destroy the SS Cambria boarded her without incident. They carried few bags, but those they did carry were heavy. "We are miners," one named Jesse Gospel told Miss Lenfen, "and we go where the work is, so we're used to carrying all our possessions with us." He smiled broadly through his thick black beard, and Jennifer smiled back warmly. "We have found new jobs on Earth," he concluded. Neither Jennifer nor anyone else on the Cambria over the next few days stopped to think that there were no more mining operations on Earth.
Chapter Fifteen
For several more hours, the infantry Marines moving deeper into the swamp had no further contact with what nearly all of them by then believed were Skinks. Night fell. Itches that had eased or ceased resumed as new, nocturnal insectoids found their way inside the Marines' uniforms. In the middle distance, night predators stalked and cried, in triumph or frustration. Their prey shrieked death agonies when they were caught, screamed relief or indignation if they escaped.
Commander van Winkle called a halt at sundown. He didn't stop his battalion's advance because his Marines would be blind—their light-gathering shields overcame most of the difficulties of night movement. He stopped because his men were tired and needed to rest. Stopping for the night didn't mean a full bivouac, with everyone in defensive positions and one man in three awake, watching while the others slept. Instead, each of the three companies would have two squads out on patrol. Half of the remaining Marines could sleep while the rest were ready to fight defensively—or go to the aid of the patrols.
"Listen up, second squad," Sergeant Bladon said.
The nine Marines under his command maintained their scattered positions, listening to their squad leader over the squad circuit on their helmet comms. "We've got a short one, we'll only be out there for three hours." Nobody responded with the caveat, "If we don't run into any trouble." They understood that.
"The string-of-pearls picked up something that might be an anomaly about a klick from here," Bladon continued. "We're going to scope it out."
"Might be an anomaly" was an apt description of the difficulty the string-of-pearls had in detecting and interpreting anything under the swamp's canopy.
"Take a look." Bladon transmitted his HUD map to his squad. Each man examined it in his own display. The map didn't show much; some waterways, their route out and the different route back, a mark for the location of the "might be an anomaly," and three rally points.
The map didn't show paths or animal tracks, didn't show the lesser rills, and the elevation lines were mostly incomplete. There were few landmarks they could use to navigate on. They would be totally dependent on Sergeant Bladon's UPUD, Mark III, to tell them where they were and to find their way back. Nobody liked that—the UPUD communicated with the string-of-pearls, and they knew how much trouble SoP had seeing through the canopy. They were also aware of Gunny Bass's distrust of it, and some of them had been with him when the Mark II had failed. Besides, equipment often failed in hostile environments. And the Swamp of Perdition, with all its water and muck, was definitely a hostile environment.
When he thought they'd had enough time to study the map and its implications, Bladon asked, "Any questions?"
"What's the anomaly?" Doyle asked.
Bladon suppressed a sigh. "We don't know, that's why it's an anomaly. The string-of-pearls saw something that nobody could identify. We're going to find out what it is. Any other questions?" There were none. "Let's move it out."
Without a sound, Schultz rose to his feet and headed out through the company's night perimeter. Everybody knew he'd take the point.
"Me, Chan, Linsman," Bladon said, finishing the patrol route order; he followed second fire team, followed by third, with first bringing up the rear.
They all used their light gatherers; the night was impenetrable without them. Vision was strange, eerie. Distance didn't dim it and there were few deep shadows under foliage; everyplace was equally dark. It affected depth perception—the changes in light intensity and quality that normally gave clues to distance were absent. The ground, what could be seen through the foliage, rippled in shallow swells like the surface of a still ocean. Line of sight was restricted by the denseness of growth; in spots it spiked to forty meters, and was often less than five. The strangeness of vision had little effect on the Marines; all but two of them had combat experience with night vision. Of those two, in Corporal Chan's fire team PFC Longfellow had used the device in Boot Camp training, but that wasn't too far in his past. The one who had trouble with it was Corporal Doyle, whose Boot Camp night-vision training was more than ten years behind him.
Schultz kept the HUD map tacked away in a corner of his vision, and without ever looking directly at it, followed the slowly moving dot that showed Sergeant Bladon's position. As long as the dot was near the line that marked their assigned route, they were close enough on course. Schultz wasn't going to be fanatical about sticking to the route; there were hummocks to go around, thick tangles of growth to bypass, waterways too deep or with bottoms too soft, which needed to be circled. Like any patrol route drawn by someone who hadn't walked the ground, it had stretches that were too difficult or too hazardous. Schultz was cautious and deliberate in his advance.
Mud sucked at their feet, strained to keep them in place, almost like an organism that wanted to hold them, digest them, absorb their nutrients. Prey browsed or foraged closer to a few men than to the entire battalion, predators stalked and cried closer. Water, evaporated from the streams during the day, condensed, slid down twigs and leaves and then plopped to the ground. The night seemed filled with more sounds than during the day. Or maybe the lack of daytime sights caused a subjective increase.
Corporal Doyle was jumpy. All the sounds he didn't understand had him imagining monsters creeping close. Water drops plop-plopped on his helmet like Chinese water torture. His feet felt the slime of the mud through his boots. Curiously, he barely noticed the swarming insectoids that had bothered him so much during the day. He kept thinking about the anomaly. Having no idea what it was, it bothered him. Surely they had some hint. Was it a structure? Did body heat show up? A heat signature that might indicate an engine of some sort? Was it a blank spot, like the string-of-pearls being blocked? Was it possible to block the multiple sensors and scanners of a string-of-pearls? Surely they knew something!
And he couldn't see anything! Well, he could see, but the light was so strange. It was like walking through a mist with lights coming into it everywhere from so many directions that there was no real point of origin; everything looked exactly the same. Not exactly the same—he could distinguish shapes and some colors—but nothing cast shadows, and he couldn't tell where anything was. He had to look at this tree and then past it to that bush and back and at both at the same time to figure out which was closer, which was farther. And then how far away were they and how far from each other? What was going to happen if they got in a firefight and Sergeant Bladon ordered volley fire? How was he supposed to guess how far ten meters was, or twenty or thirty, to put his plasma bolts on line with the others?
Every cry of a night hunter and screech of captured prey made him jump. Small muscles began to twitch involuntarily and his breath came ever more shallow.
If he'd thought it through a little further, Corporal Doyle would have realized that all he had to do with volley fire was aim at a point along the line everyone else was firing on. And if he could see who he was shooting at, he wouldn't have to worry about range because the blaster was a line-of-sight weapon over normal infantry ranges—simply point and shoot and don't worry about making sight adjustments. Besides, as odd as the light might be, he really could see, even better than he could with the unaided eye in the light of swampy day.
They made good time, though the going was difficult. Schultz had to make sure every hollow, every depression he couldn't see into at a distance, was untenanted. He needed to see the back side of every object behind which an enemy could lie in ambus
h. He had to watch that his footing was firm, that neither he nor the Marines following would slip in loose muck or trod in quicksand. He had to avoid walking on drifted leaves and twigs that might conceal a sinkhole or make unwanted noise. Before entering the water of a rill or stream, he had to assure himself that nobody was opposite, waiting for the Marines to expose themselves. And he couldn't walk through the tangles and sheets of foliage that dangled and dripped from the trees. Somehow, he always found a way that didn't require a path to be hacked or broken.
The HUD showed they were less than fifty meters from the anomaly when Sergeant Bladon called a halt. They were a little more than an hour into the patrol. He spoke softly into his helmet comm.
"Rat, take over. Hammer, you and me take a closer look."
"Aye aye," Corporal Linsman replied, then began his own soft commands to establish a hasty defensive position.
Schultz didn't reply, he simply waited for Bladon to reach him before advancing in a low crouch. The two were crawling by the time they reached their destination. Bladon looked around, checked his HUD, checked the UPUD, looked around again.
"See anything?" he asked.
Schultz grunted softly. He didn't see anything out of what passed for ordinary in the swamp.
After they watched for a few minutes longer, Bladon called in a report. "According to the UPUD, we're at the anomaly. Nothing's here."
"Any marks on the ground to indicate anybody's been there recently?" asked Lieutenant Humphrey, who took the report himself.
"Negative. Looks like nobody's ever been here."
"Set an ambush for half an hour, then come back in."
"Roger," Bladon replied. Then to Schultz, "Let's go." He began to rise to a crouch to head back, stopped when he realized Schultz hadn't moved. "What do you have?"
Schultz didn't reply. Using his infra, Bladon saw Schultz's head slowly rotate, looking around.
Bladon sank back to his knees, one hand on the mud, the other holding his blaster parallel to the ground. He slid his infra into place and scanned his surroundings. No heat signatures showed. He listened and realized it was several minutes since he'd last heard the cries of hunting or hunted animals. He glanced at the UPUD, but it didn't show any movement.
Abruptly, Schultz stood and raised all his shields. He breathed deeply, let the air fill his nostrils, roll across his tongue. He slowly twisted around until he was facing back the way they'd come.
"Skinks," he said, and headed back at a fast walk, gloved hand on his blaster's firing lever.
Bladon didn't ask any questions. If Schultz said there were Skinks behind them, in the direction of the rest of the squad, he wasn't going to doubt him no matter what the UPUD said—Schultz was more likely to be right.
Halfway to the squad's position, Schultz stuck out an arm, and Bladon would have run into it if he hadn't been maintaining proper night movement interval. Schultz slowly swiveled to his right, lowering himself as he did. He raised his left hand and shook it to let the sleeve drop to expose his forearm, then pointed in that direction. Bladon turned to where Schultz pointed and lowered himself to a knee. He looked through his infra.
Twenty meters away, where it formed the apex of an isosceles triangle with him and where he thought the nearest man in the squad was, he picked up a heat signature. It seemed large enough to be a small man, but was too dim for human body temperature.
"Shit," he swore to himself. He'd seen exactly that signature before—on Waygone. It had to be a Skink. He raised his infra and looked through the light gatherer. A Skink was turning, bringing the nozzle of its weapon to bear on him.
"SKINKS!" he shouted, and fired simultaneously.
The Skink flared into vapor. More blasters crack-sizzled in the night. His light shield briefly blacked as it was overwhelmed by the flashes of several hit Skinks flaring up.
"Both sides!" Bladon shouted, though he knew his squad was already shooting in all directions. He couldn't see any more Skinks even when he added his magnifier shield to the mix, though he clearly heard their jabbering. He glanced toward Schultz. The big Marine wasn't firing. He slapped his shoulder and the two rose to run to the rest of the squad.
"Coming in!" he shouted. "Kerr, Doyle, it's us!" Then they were with the squad.
"Report!"
Linsman reported that Lance Corporal Rodamour had been splashed by a stream from a Skink weapon, but it was minor and he'd already dug out the acid that was eating into his side. Miraculously, nobody else was injured. The Marines kept up their fire while the reports came in. Their fire was met by more flares from hit Skinks.
One voice rose above the general jabbering that encircled second squad and a whistle sounded. The jabbering cut off, and the only sounds were those of fleeing bodies crashing through brush.
"Where the hell did they come from?"
"Damned if I know," Linsman replied. "We didn't even know they were there until you yelled." He sounded shaken.
Bladon called in his report.
"How many did you get?" Humphrey asked after Bladon told him of his one minor casualty.
"I'm not sure. I saw at least eight or ten flashes."
"Any point in looking for bodies?"
Bladon barked a laugh. Lieutenant Humphrey hadn't been on Waygone, he'd only heard about how even a glancing hit from a plasma bolt made a Skink flash into vapor. Bladon had seen that happen himself.
"None," he replied.
"Right," Humphrey said, almost chagrined that he'd asked such a dumb question. "Return right now."
"Assigned route?"
Humphrey considered the question for a second. "Assigned route," he confirmed. The artillery battery had fires plotted along that route. If second squad needed help on the way back, they could get it.
Probing attacks began around the battalion perimeter while second squad was returning. They were only a hundred meters away when Schultz yelled "SKINKS!" as he dove into the mud and rolled to the side.
A stream of greenish fluid shot through the air where he'd been and just missed Doyle, who toppled to his side as the acid shot past. Kerr leaped forward and landed between Schultz and Doyle in time to see Schultz flare the Skink who'd shot at him.
Kerr saw a faint smear of red in his infra and snapped a bolt at it. A Skink vaporized. More faint smears of red showed up. "Right front!" he said on the squad circuit, and flashed another Skink. On his right he sensed Schultz methodically firing. "Doyle, take them out!" he ordered.
"Where are they? I can't see anything."
"Use your infra. If you don't see a target, fire randomly!"
Doyle began firing randomly to his right front as he slid his infra into place. A bright flash greeted one of his shots and he stopped shooting. "I got one!"
"Keep shooting, there's more where that one came from."
"Oh." Doyle resumed shooting.
Harsh barking sounded to their right front, like a commander issuing orders, organizing his men. Plasma bolts from the Marines in the company perimeter sizzled low overhead.
"Second squad, pull back," Bladon ordered. The bolts from the perimeter were too close and they were in danger of being shot by their own people. "There's a hollow about twenty meters back—head for it."
Still prone, still firing, the ten Marines began crawling backward. Bladon turned around and headed straight for the dip so he could guide his men. It wasn't much shelter, just deep enough to get their torsos below the level of the surrounding mud. It was bottomed with a few inches of water. He used all three shields to see his men and tell them in what direction to crawl. He grabbed the men when they got close and pulled them in.
Corporal Chan was the last one in. He dragged Watson with him. Lance Corporal Watson was dead, hit squarely by two streams of acid.
"Anyone else hit?" Bladon wanted to know.
Again, almost miraculously, nobody else was wounded.
"We must have come up behind them," Bladon said, "and caught them by surprise."
Kerr wondered a
bout that. The Skink that first shot at Schultz was, what, fifteen meters away before it fired? Maybe whatever told the Skinks where the Marines were wasn't as sensitive as he'd thought. Did it have severe distance limitations? The range of the sense had to be more than fifteen meters. On Waygone the Skinks had shot at them at night from thirty or forty meters and come close enough to cause casualties. No human could shoot at a chameleoned Marine at night and consistently hit that close unless he was using an infra. Maybe the Skink had to hold off until it had a sight line?
Kerr stopped thinking about it long enough to snap off a round at a smear of red that showed in his infra. Instantly, the nine Marines in the hollow opened fire. Three flashes brightened the night as three Skinks vaporized.
The roughly circular hollow was only ten meters or so in diameter, the Marines dangerously bunched along its lip. One good spray from the flank would hit most of them.
"Third fire team, move to the right flank," Bladon ordered. "First fire team, left flank, put someone on our rear. Second team, spread out!"
The Marines crab-crawled, firing as they scuttled. They were still too close together, but one lucky spray wouldn't hit as many of them, and the flanks and rear were covered. Fire continued from the company perimeter. The bolts that made it as far as the hollow were high enough that second squad wasn't in immediate danger from them. Harsh voices shouted above the crack-sizzle of the blaster fire and the jabbering of the Skinks. It sounded like they were getting organized for an assault on the hollow. Bladon looked at the UPUD. It showed large numbers of bodies moving around the hollow. He called in a situation report.
Kingdom's Swords Page 15
