Chapter One
The general who is skilled in defense hides in the most secret recesses of the Earth; he who is skilled in attack flashes forth from the topmost heights of heaven.
—Sun Tzu
The Art of War
Standard year circa 500 B.C.
PLANET ORON IV, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Captain Antonio Santana, Commanding Officer of Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC, felt a noticeable jerk as the CF-10 Assault Boat fell free of the Troop Transport Cynthia Harmon and began a gradual descent toward the nearly airless planet below. The lightly armed landing craft was accompanied by four Dagger 184 aerospace fighters. That knowledge brought the cavalry officer scant comfort, however, because he knew that once his largely untried company hit the surface of Oron IV, the navy wouldn’t be able to do much more than cheer them on. Or mourn their deaths.
Santana felt his body float up off the surface of the jump seat, or try to, but a six-point harness held him in place. Behind the officer, back in the CF-10’s crowded cargo bay, sixteen space-armored bio bods and nineteen cyborgs shared the heady combination of fear and excitement that precedes any combat insertion. And this one was worse than most. Because not only was half the company fresh from basic training, and had never been in combat before, but the raid was the type of mission normally reserved for the Marine Corps. Except there was a shortage of jarheads at the moment—which was why the Legion had been ordered to stand in for them. Making a bad situation worse was the fact that Major Liam Quinlan had assumed command of the 2nd Battalion while Santana was on leave. And for some reason the new CO was determined to find fault with everything the officer did, a fact that had become obvious to the entire company and made the veterans resentful.
But Santana had dealt with difficult commanding officers before and been able to win most of them over by doing a good job. With that in mind, the cavalry officer put all of his other concerns aside to focus on the task at hand. The pale orange planet seemed to swell as the CF-10 entered an atmosphere thick with methane, carbon dioxide, and nitrous oxide. Which was why the world was considered worthless, or had been until recently, when the war between the Ramanthian Empire and the Confederacy of Sentient Beings had begun. Suddenly everything was in flux as old enemies became new friends, a new faster-than-ship communications technology began to reshape the way future wars would be fought, and planets like Oron IV were suddenly significant. Not as places for people to live, but as strategic jump points, where supplies could be pre-positioned for battles yet to come. Because, as Military Chief of Staff General Bill Booly liked to point out, supplies are the lifeblood of any army.
Which, assuming the intelligence people were correct, was why the insectoid Ramanthians had chosen to establish a presence on Oron IV, a planet that lay well within the Confederacy’s gradually shrinking borders, was generally inhospitable to life, and rarely received visitors. All of which made it the perfect place for the bugs to hide a whole shitload of supplies while they got ready for the next big push. “Are you sure the chits are down there?” the copilot inquired dubiously. “There are no signs of electronic activity so far. . . . Maybe they went home.”
“That would be nice,” Santana replied over his suit radio. “But odds are the bastards are lying low. That’s what I would do if I were them.”
All radio communications were being routed through the company-level Integrated Tactical Command (ITC) system, which meant that Major Quinlan could monitor the company’s progress from the well-padded comfort of the Harmon’s Command & Control Center (C&C) and participate in any conversation he chose to. “I don’t think any of us care what you would do if you were a Ramanthian,” Quinlan commented caustically. “So, stow the bullshit, and stick to your job.”
The copilot looked back over her shoulder as if to apologize, and Santana shrugged, as if to say, “Don’t worry about it.”
Meanwhile, back in the cargo bay, Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich frowned. The hollow-cheeked noncom had served with Santana before. First on LaNor, where a consortium of off-world governments had been forced to battle the Claw, and then on Savas, where elements of the 1st REC took part in a raid that required them to traverse hundreds of miles of hostile territory. So Dietrich not only knew what the cavalry officer was capable of, but was familiar with Santana’s combat record, which included two Medals for Valor and a Distinguished Service Cross. Complete with a newly added star. And, being a decorated veteran himself, Dietrich knew how divisive an officer like Quinlan could be. Divisive, and if they weren’t careful, dead. Because it was the noncom’s opinion that every garden requires an occasional weeding.
Both of the company’s quads were back by the loading ramp, where they could hit the ground first, backed by seventeen ten-foot-tall Trooper IIs, all of whom were clamped to the bulkheads, and fifteen bio bods, many of whom were looking at the “Top,” trying to gauge his reaction to Quinlan’s comment. Mindful of the fact that the major could hear anything he said, Dietrich grinned menacingly from behind his faceplate and aimed a one-fingered salute up toward space.
The legionnaires seated around the noncom laughed, and even though both of Santana’s platoon leaders witnessed the gesture, they were careful to ignore it. Partly because they had no love for Quinlan themselves, but mostly because they were afraid to get crosswise of the hard-eyed sergeant, and the veterans who were loyal to him. The net effect was to break the tension and simultaneously restore the company’s confidence in Santana. Because if Dietrich had faith in the captain, then it was obvious that they should, too.
The assault boat and its sleek escorts bucked their way down through multiple layers of turbulent gas until they could skim the planet’s arid surface. There wasn’t much to see other than frequent outcroppings of gray rock, dry riverbeds, and occasional forests of what looked like petrified trees. Then, after ten minutes or so, the landing craft’s boxy shadow rippled over the only man-made structures on the planet’s surface. The complex consisted of a rusty dome, a clutch of globular tanks, and a sand-drifted landing pad. The words “Madsen Mining” were still legible on the cracked duracrete if one looked hard enough. The entire facility was nestled within the open arms of three interlocking hills, which the map provided by Madsen Mining referred to as the Three Amigos.
“Bingo!” the copilot said excitedly, as she stared at the readouts arrayed in front of her. “That sucker is radiating way too much heat. . . . It looks like the chits took over the mine! Maybe we should tell the Dags to bomb ’em.”
“They’re too deep,” Santana replied wearily. “In fact, based on the schematic that Madsen Mining gave us, it looks like some of the major galleries are more than a thousand feet below the surface. Besides, there’s a war on, and some of those supplies could come in handy. . . . Put us down one mile to the west. Who knows what kind of weapons systems and booby traps the bugs have in place around the landing pad.”
Quinlan’s response came so quickly it was as if he’d been waiting to make it. “That’s a negative Alpha Six. Why give the enemy time to prepare? You will land on the pad—and do so immediately. Over.”
The pilot looked back over his shoulder as if to say, “What now?”
Santana swore under his breath. He’d been hoping to avoid conflict, but if that was what it was going to take to protect his legionnaires, then that’s the way it would have to be. “Alpha Six to Zulu Six. I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a lot of interference down here, and you’re breaking up. Over.”
The pilot grinned as Quinlan began to rant and rave. “You’re lying, Santana. . . . And disobeying a direct order! I’m going to—”
But whatever the major was going to do was forever lost as the copilot flicked a switch, and the relay went dead. “Sorry, sir,” she said, knowing that the flight recorder would capture her words. “It looks like we have some sort of com problem.”
“See what you can do with it,” the pilot replied calmly, as he brought the boat’s nose up and fired the repellers. “I have a ship to land. Thirty to dirt . . .”
Santana was already up out of his seat and making his way back into the cargo bay when the assault boat’s skids thumped down, the rear hatch whirred open, and the entire ship shook as Private Ivan Lupo lumbered down the ramp onto Oron IV’s reddish soil. The cyborg stood twenty-five feet tall, weighed fifty tons, and was supported by four massive legs. It was no accident that the so-called quad was the first legionnaire to hit dirt, because not only were Lupo’s sensors superior to those carried by the bipedal Trooper IIs (T-2s), but his gang-mounted energy cannons were more than a match for anything up to and including a Ramanthian battle tank. Not that Alpha Company was likely to encounter enemy armor on a backwater crud ball like Oron IV. Of course Lupo knew that “. . . assumptions can get you killed.” That’s what he and his buddies had been taught back in basic, and having already been executed for murder, the ex-con had no desire to die again. Not so soon at any rate.
Lupo assumed a defensive position about a hundred yards west of the landing craft, as Private Simy Xiong exited the ship and took up a similar position off to the east. As the second quad settled over her legs, Santana sent First Lieutenant Lucy Amoyo’s platoon out to secure the rest of the perimeter. For many of the legionnaires it was the first time they had set foot on a potentially hostile planet, so even though there weren’t any visible signs of life, the entire outfit was amped.
Amoyo, one of the few members of Alpha Company who had seen combat, was no exception as she rode her ten-foot-tall T-2 out onto Oron’s arid surface. From where the officer stood, high on the cyborg’s back, she had an excellent field of vision. More than that, she was free to focus most of her attention on the first platoon rather than negotiate the raw terrain. That chore fell to Sergeant Amy Matos, formerly Corporal Amy Matos, who had been killed in action two years previously, and given a chance to re-up as a cyborg. Which was really no choice at all since Matos couldn’t afford even the cheapest cybernetic civbod, a vehicle that would allow her to look human even if certain biological functions were forever lost to her.
So Matos brought her weapons systems to condition-five readiness and cranked her sensors to high gain, as she circled the newly created perimeter. The cyborg could run at speeds up to fifty miles per hour, operate in Class I through Class IX gas atmospheres, and fight in a complete vacuum if necessary. And, thanks to her fast-recovery laser cannon, air-cooled .50-caliber machine gun, and optional missile launchers, the T-2’s firepower equaled that of eight fully armed bio bods. Having completed a full circuit of the perimeter, and being satisfied with the way her troops were positioned, Amoyo ordered Matos to pull up. “Alpha One-Six to Alpha Six. Over.”
Had Santana felt free to do so, he would have been the first bio bod off the ship. But the entire company was watching, and the officer knew he couldn’t disembark with the first platoon lest the action be interpreted as a lack of faith in Lieutenant Amoyo’s judgment. And, given the fact that she was his executive officer (XO) as well as the senior platoon leader, it was important to build her rep. So, Santana was standing in the cargo bay, monitoring the heads-up display (HUD) on the inside surface of his visor, when the call came in. “This is Six,” Santana replied calmly. “Go. Over.”
“The landing zone is secure, sir,” the platoon leader reported flatly. “Over.”
“Roger, that, One-Six,” Santana replied. “Keep your eyes peeled. Out.”
Based on previous experience, Santana knew that his other platoon commander, a young second lieutenant named Gregory Zolkin, had a tendency to be excessively wordy where his reports were concerned. He hoped the untried officer had been paying attention to Amoyo’s succinct style as the two of them made eye contact. Both were sealed inside full body armor, so what might have otherwise been a casual interchange was made more formal by the need to use radio procedure, which was required whenever a conversation took place on the company-level push.
“Alpha Six to Bravo One-Six,” Santana said. “Based on the amount of heat that’s escaping from the mine shaft, there’s a very real possibility that the bugs are hiding out below, waiting to see if we’ll go away. You and I will take the first squad and knock on the front door. Meanwhile, Alpha Six-Two will take the second squad and circle around behind the hills. His job will be to locate the back door. And believe me—there is one. Do you have any questions? Over.”
Zolkin had lots of questions. Not the least of which was would he make an ass of himself, shit his suit, or get killed? But, being unable to actually ask those questions, the lieutenant gave the only answer he could. “Sir, no, sir. Bravo One-Six out.”
Santana hadn’t discussed the plan with Dietrich in advance, but such was the relationship between the two men that the noncom had anticipated such an assignment, and was ready for it. Because if a substantial number of chits were allowed to surface in the wrong place, the results could be disastrous. And rather than download the task to Zolkin, Santana had given the job to his company sergeant, knowing Dietrich had more than enough experience to handle it. “Okay,” Santana said evenly. “Let’s hit the dirt. Six out.”
More than a thousand feet below Oron IV’s harsh surface, Subcommander Sig Byap sat within a pressurized chamber and watched the Confederacy ship lift. It was just what he’d been hoping for, except that rather than take the alien soldiers along with it, the reentry-scarred vessel had deposited them on the surface, where the ugly-looking creatures were pumping air into a field hab.
The Ramanthian swore as the assault boat hovered for a moment and stirred up a vortex of dust before crossing the defensive perimeter and accelerating away. Then, as a large knot continued to form in his belly, the officer watched a four-legged cyborg turn and “look” his way. Missile racks appeared along both sides of the quad’s hull—and there was a momentary flash of light as one of them fired. Camera 36 went dark a fraction of a second later. Having missed the carefully concealed surcams during initial sweeps of the area, it appeared that subsequent efforts had been more successful, as 92 percent of Byap’s surveillance devices were taken off-line. That meant the eggless scum knew about the subsurface storage facility and intended to capture or destroy it, which the degenerates would very likely be able to accomplish thanks to the amount of firepower they had.
However, given that Byap was a sworn member of the Nira, a fanatical group of officers for whom surrender was unthinkable, there was only one choice: fight to the death. Not something Byap lusted after the way some Ramanthians did, but a perfectly acceptable outcome given the needs of his people. Because with five billion newly hatched citizens to care for, the empire was in need of everything. Especially real estate. Which was how the war had begun—and why he and his troops were about to die.
The Ramanthians preferred to live underground, so while somewhat monotonous, life inside the mine had been acceptable up until that point. Video screens, most of which had been rendered dark, covered a rocky wall. They were fronted by a curved control console, five saddle chairs, and the same number of technicians.
Byap was seated behind them, and swiveled around to face a heavily armed file leader named Beeb Nohar. Having responded to the general alarm, the officer was dressed in power-assisted space armor that would not only protect the soldier from a complete vacuum, but enable him to rip a legionnaire’s head off should that be necessary. The helmet that Nohar held clutched in the crook of his right arm incorporated side-mounted black portals through which his compound eyes would be able to see, and a hook-shaped protuberance designed to accommodate his parrotlike beak. The file leader listened impassively as Byap spoke. “The automatic defenses located in the vicinity of the main lock won’t be sufficient to stop them,” the subcommander predicted. “Confront the animals in the main corridor and show no mercy. I will take File Two, exit through the escape shaft, and attack the troops on the surface.”
The plan made sense, given the circumstances, even though it couldn’t possibly succeed. But both of Nohar’s mates had been killed on Infama VI, and he was eager to join them in paradise. “It shall be as you say,” the file leader agreed stoically, and came to the Ramanthian equivalent of attention.
Byap stood. “You are a fine officer,” the subcommander said feelingly. “The Queen would be proud. Dismissed.”
Once Nohar was gone, and the technicians had been released to rejoin their units, Byap shuffled over to the control console, where he removed the wafer-shaped device that dangled from his neck and slipped the object into a waiting slot. A gentle whir could be heard as a remote appeared, and the officer took possession of it. There wasn’t a single member of his command who wasn’t aware of the strategically located demolition charges that had been pre-positioned throughout the mine. But being aware of a potential calamity, and knowing it’s about to occur, are two different things. So the officer thought it best to pocket the device when none of his subordinates were present to see him do so. Especially given the fact that once the charges went off, the entire mine would collapse, killing everyone inside.
From all appearances it looked as if someone or something had bypassed the dome’s heavy-duty lock by hacking a huge hole in the habitat’s metal skin. The Ramanthians? Possibly, although Santana had his doubts, as Sergeant Omi Dekar carried him through the ragged opening. There wasn’t much to see as the T-2’s headlight swept back and forth across the nearly empty interior. In fact, it looked as if the place had been gutted years before. By humans most likely, looking to strip the mothballed facility of electronics, or anything else that could be sold on the black market.
Having found nothing of interest inside the dome, the legionnaires made their way toward the small blocky building that served as the entry point to the mine below. The terrain, not to mention piles of rusty pipe and pieces of old mining equipment, conspired to funnel the squad through a narrow passageway. Was that a matter of chance, Santana wondered? Or the result of careful planning? “Take it slow,” the cavalry officer cautioned. “And keep your eyes peeled for booby traps.”
That was good advice, as soon became apparent, when Staff Sergeant Carol Yanty spotted two pieces of pipe that stuck up out of the ground like gateposts and motioned for those behind her to stop. What caught her attention was the fact that anyone who wanted to approach the main lock would have to pass between the head-high pylons. The NCO dropped to the ground, made her way over to a pile of scrap, and selected a small piece of sheet metal. Harsh sunlight glinted off the object as it sailed between the pipes. Lieutenant Zolkin, who had been somewhat skeptical until then, watched in slack-jawed astonishment as a bolt of bright blue electricity jumped from one pole to the other and punched a hole through the scrap of sheet metal as it did so. Then, having completed its task, the system returned to standby.
The platoon leader couldn’t hear the sizzle from inside his suit, but there was nothing wrong with his imagination, so he could easily visualize what would have occurred had he been allowed to lead the rest of the squad through the narrow passageway. Would his armor have been sufficient to protect him from such a device? Maybe, Zolkin concluded, and maybe not.
The electrified posts were quickly slagged by the T-2s, thus allowing the entire team to pass unharmed. “Okay,” Santana said over the squad-level com channel. “That confirms what we already knew. . . . The bugs are in residence, so stay sharp.”
And they were sharp, or as sharp as they could be, but some traps are difficult to detect. As the legionnaires learned when Private Mak Matal put his full weight on a sand-swept pressure plate and triggered a carefully shaped charge. The explosion blew both the T-2 and his rider into a thousand fragments. They soared upwards until gravity took over and began to pull them back down. The bloody confetti had a tendency to bond with anything that it came in contact with. Including the legionnaires themselves.
The disaster was so unexpected that even Santana was shocked, especially since he, Zolkin, Yanty, and their T-2s had safely crossed the very same spot only moments before. Killing the fourth person, or in this case persons to pass over the mine was a tactic intended to inflict casualties, sow the seeds of doubt, and terrorize those who survived. That was bad enough, but having lost one-third of Yanty’s squad, Santana was even more concerned about the unit’s ability to defend itself as the survivors came together in front of the main lock. “Check the hatch for booby traps,” Santana ordered tersely. “And, if it comes up clean, blow it.”
Zolkin felt as if he should be giving orders, or helping somehow, but found that it was difficult to see. So he reached up to wipe the muck off his face shield, realized what the bloody sludge was, and threw up in his helmet. The vomit ran down the officer’s chin, found its way past his neck seal, and dribbled into his suit. The stench was sickening, and Zolkin felt an intense sense of shame, as his stomach heaved yet again.
“Get away from the hatch,” Santana ordered, as Yanty slapped a charge against the metal door and stepped to one side. All of the soldiers took cover as Yanty flipped a safety switch and thumbed the remote. There was a flash of light as the charge went off, followed by a cloud of dust, as air was expelled and an equivalent amount of Oron IV’s atmosphere rushed in to replace it. That was Private Oneeye Knifeplay’s cue to fire six grenades into the black hole in an effort to kill any chits that were waiting within.
Santana couldn’t hear the explosions, but he could see flashes as the grenades went off, and sent pieces of razor-sharp shrapnel flying in every direction. And even though the wait was only a few seconds long, there was still enough time to feel the fear seep into his belly. Matal and Bisby died the first time they went into combat, the soldier told himself. But even though you’ve been in combat dozens of times, you’re still alive. Why is that? And how many more doors can you walk through before your luck runs out?
There was no answer, just as Santana knew there wouldn’t be, and for some reason it was an image of Christine Vanderveen’s face that the cavalry officer saw as he entered the swirling smoke. It might have been Camerone, in 1863, or Dien Bien Phu in 1953, or any of a thousand actions since, as the company commander waved his legionnaires forward. “What the hell are you waiting for?” Sergeant Yanty wanted to know, as the remainder of her squad stood frozen in place. “A frigging invitation? Let’s kill some bugs!”
Four bio bods and four T-2s entered the mine, and followed the gradually sloping shaft downwards, as their lights played across the rough-hewn rock walls. And that, according to File Leader Beeb Nohar’s way of thinking, was just fine.
It was a long way from the control cavern to the escape hatch located on the other side of the hills above, so Byap and the twelve troopers who accompanied him still had a ways to go, when they received word that the aliens had entered the mine. A price had been paid, however, a bloody price, and that gave the Ramanthian pleasure as he urged his soldiers forward. Blobs of light swung back and forth across rocky walls, and badly faded alien hieroglyphics could be seen here and there, as the Ramanthians shuffled past a side gallery crammed floor to ceiling with army rations.
Finally, after five minutes of additional travel, the file was forced to a stop in front of the emergency exit. Having checked to ensure that the lock’s surcam was operational, Byap took the time necessary to scan the external environment before proceeding any farther. Because once out in the open, the subcommander knew that his tiny force would be vulnerable to enemy cyborgs and the Confederacy’s aerospace fighters. But the surcam revealed nothing other than a cloudless sky and the steep scree-covered slope that led to the iron-oxide-stained plain below.
Confident that the immediate area was safe, Byap led his troopers into the lock and tapped a series of numbers into the human-style keypad. Sunlight splashed the lock’s interior and threw shadows against the back wall as the hatch cycled open. As Byap led the file out onto the treacherous hillside, he knew speed was of the essence if he and his troops were to circle around and take the enemy by surprise. The Ramanthian knew that the ensuing battle would constitute little more than a gesture, but he wanted to die with honor.
Such were Subcommander Byap’s thoughts as a .50-caliber bullet left the barrel of Private Mary Volin’s sniper rifle, sped through the air, and snatched a trooper off his feet. “That was a good one,” Dietrich commented, as he stood. The noncom’s face shield made the binos more difficult to use, but the dappled body armor that the chits wore was easy to spot against the light gray scree.
Byap saw the trooper spin away, knew the bullet had originated from somewhere below, and spotted movement as a tiny figure rose to look up at him. “There!” the officer said, as he pointed at the alien below. “Kill him!”
And the Ramanthian troopers tried, but the second squad was more than a thousand yards away, which put the legionnaires well beyond the effective range of the Ramanthian Negar assault weapons. That left Volin free to peer into the 10X scope, pick her next target, and send a second armor-piercing slug spinning upslope.
Byap swore as another trooper went down. Then, knowing that he had no choice but retreat, the subcommander turned and began to scramble uphill. The movement brought the officer to Dietrich’s attention. “See the bug who’s leading the rest of them uphill?” the noncom inquired conversationally. “Kill him.”
And Volin tried. But a sudden breeze came in from the west and gave the speeding bullet a tiny nudge. Not much, but enough to knock the slug off course, and momentarily save Byap’s life. But the 706.7-grain projectile still took the subcommander’s left arm off, turned him around, and dumped him onto the scree. And it was then, while staring up into an alien sky, that Byap remembered the remote. Time seemed to slow as the Ramanthian fumbled for the object and finally found it.
The suit had sealed itself by that time, cauterized the terrible wound that he had suffered, and was busy pumping drugs into the officer’s circulatory system. That made it hard to think, but the officer forced himself to focus, as he struggled to break the remote’s safety tab. A simple task given two pincers, but difficult with only one, especially when the enemy was shooting at you. Finally, having made use of a neighboring rock to break the tab off, Byap gave the device a squeeze.
There was no response at first, or that was the way it seemed to the Ramanthian, as troopers continued to fall all around him. But then the earth shook, the entire air lock was blown out of the hillside, and the scree began to move. That was when Byap knew his efforts had been successful—and that the gates of paradise would open before him.
Having forced his way into the mine, Santana expected to encounter stiff resistance from the Ramanthians and was surprised when nothing of that sort occurred. There was something oppressive about the rock walls that closed in around the legionnaires as the throatlike passageway took them deeper underground. What little bit of comfort there was stemmed from the fact that while small, his force packed plenty of firepower. Occasional lights cast an ominous greenish glow over tool-ripped walls as the floor sloped steadily downwards.
As the squad pushed deeper into the mine, and his T-2’s powerful headlamp pushed its way into various nooks and crannies, Santana was careful to record everything his suit-cam “saw.” That included the Ramanthian-made vehicles that were parked in turnouts, “bug” script that had been spray painted onto the walls, and occasional sorties into side caverns stuffed with supplies. All of which would be of interest to Intel.
But all the while the company commander couldn’t escape the feeling that he and his companions were under surveillance as the T-2s monitored their sensors and their lights probed the murk ahead. But there was nothing to see until the trap closed around them. The mine was a maze of cross tunnels and vertical access shafts. So by hiding two levels above the main tunnel, and dropping spiderlike into the main passageway, the Ramanthians were able to land behind the legionnaires and thereby block their escape route. That was the plan anyway, and it would have been successful, had it not been for Lieutenant Zolkin. Having been assigned the drag position, and given strict orders to “. . . Watch our six,” the officer’s T-2 had been forced to walk backwards much of the time.
Even so, if the officer hadn’t been so clumsy as to drop a bag of grenades, which he was then forced to jump down and retrieve, Nohar might have been able to land his file undetected. But such was not the case as Zolkin lifted the sack, saw a space-armored Ramanthian appear out of nowhere, and threw a grenade up corridor. All without pausing to think about it. The enemy trooper was blown to smithereens, and Zolkin was back on Tebo before the rest of the squad could respond. The sequence of actions earned the platoon leader a precious “well done” from Santana.
Thanks to the early warning, the legionnaires were able to fight their way back toward the main lock even as a dozen heavily armed troopers fell on them, and the interior of the mine shaft was transformed into a hellish nightmare of strobing muzzle flashes, exploding grenades, and wildly swinging lights. “Form on me!” Santana ordered. “Pull back toward the lock!”
Having only a small force of T-2s, and facing an unknown number of enemy troops, Santana knew he was in trouble. The decision to enter the mine had been a gamble, one he regretted, so it was time to salvage what he could.
Once the ambush site was behind them, the officer ordered the T-2s to turn and fire as a group, before making a run for the lock. And it was then, as the cyborgs began to pick up speed, that the ground started to shake. Clouds of dust and smoke were injected into the main tunnel even as slabs of rock fell from above and holes opened in the floor. And that’s where Staff Sergeant Carol Yanty and her T-2 went, as a fissure appeared in front of them, and Private Su Hopson stepped into the hole.
Santana, who had intentionally stationed himself at the tail end of the fleeing column, swore as the twosome disappeared and daylight appeared up ahead. “Run!” the officer shouted, as a wall of smoke, dust, and flying debris began to overtake the legionnaires from behind. “Run like hell!”
But the T-2s needed no urging, and were already moving as quickly as they could when the final charges went off, and a plug of poisonous air helped expel them from the mine. It was dark inside the dust cloud, but the cyborgs could “see” with their sensors and were able to keep going until the smoke finally cleared and it was possible to stop. Dekar turned to look back, which meant Santana did as well, not that there was much to see. A pile of rubble marked the spot where the entry lock had been. The dust cloud was starting to disperse and the hill off to the right had been scarred by a new landslide.
The essence of the mission, which was to confirm that the Ramanthians were present, and dislodge or kill them, had been achieved. But at what cost? Half the squad had been killed, and thousands of tons of potentially useful supplies were buried in the mine. All of which left Santana feeling more than a little depressed as he led his troops back toward the company’s temporary base. Stars started to twinkle as the sun set, darkness claimed the land, and the long bloody day came to an end.
* * *
ABOARD THE TROOP TRANSPORT CYNTHIA HARMON
More than one standard day had passed since the battle inside the mine, the loss of four legionnaires and thousands of tons of supplies. All of which weighed heavily on Santana as he made his way down the ship’s main corridor to the cabin assigned to Battalion Commander Liam Quinlan. Where he expected to get his ass royally chewed. Or, worse yet, face formal charges.
Private Kay Kaimo had been assigned to stand guard outside Quinlan’s door. The legionnaire came to attention as her company commander approached and rendered a rifle salute with her CA-10. Santana responded with a salute of his own, rapped his knuckles on the knock block next to the hatch, and waited for a response. It came quickly. “Enter!”
Santana took three paces forward, executed a smart right face, and took one additional step. That put him directly in front of the Battalion Commander as he came to attention. It was widely known that Quinlan was fifty-six years old, had been passed over for lieutenant colonel on two different occasions, and would have been forced into retirement had it not been for the war. As the Confederacy’s armed forces began to ramp up in order to deal with the Ramanthians, there was a desperate shortage of experienced officers. That meant Quinlan, and others like him, were likely to be promoted. Santana’s eyes were focused on a point about six inches above the other man’s head, but he could still see quite a bit. The man in front of him had small, piggy eyes, prissy lips, and pendent jowls. His uniform was at least half a size too small for him and tight where a potbelly pushed against it. Quinlan nodded politely. “At ease, Captain. Have a seat.”
The invitation came as something of a surprise to Santana, who fully expected to receive his tongue-lashing in the vertical position, consistent with longstanding tradition. The navy had provided two guest chairs, both of which were bolted to the deck, and Santana chose the one on the right. The cabin was three times larger than the box assigned to him and was intended to serve Quinlan as office, conference room, and sleeping quarters all rolled into one.
However, unlike most of the Legion’s senior officers, who saw no reason to personalize a space soon to be left behind, Quinlan was known to travel with a trunkful of personal items calculated to make his tent, hab, or stateroom more comfortable. For that reason all manner of photos, plaques, and memorabilia were on display, items that would quickly be transformed into a galaxy of floating trash were the Harmon’s argrav generators to drop off-line.
But that wasn’t Santana’s problem, so the company commander kept his mouth shut as Quinlan selected an old-fashioned swagger stick from the items on the top of his desk and began to twirl it about. “So,” the major began. “I read your after-action report, and while it was essentially correct, it was my opinion that you were excessively hard on yourself.”
Santana, who was still in the process of recovering from what he considered to be a flawed performance, was astounded. “If you say so, sir,” the cavalry officer replied cautiously. “But I continue to feel that our casualties were too high—and I regret the loss of those supplies.”
“Nonsense,” Quinlan said dismissively. “The Navy will dig the supplies out in a matter of weeks. You did all anyone reasonably could. . . . That’s why I took the liberty of rewriting certain sections of your report, which I would like you to read and sign. Go ahead,” the senior officer said invitingly, as he made use of the swagger stick to push the hard copy in Santana’s direction. “Take a look.”
Quinlan tapped his right cheek with the leather-clad stick as Santana skimmed the words in front of him. The essence of the situation quickly became clear. While ostensibly changing the report so as to benefit one of his subordinates, Quinlan was actually taking care of himself! Because he would remain as acting battalion commander until such time as his promotion to lieutenant colonel came through. And even though that was pretty much a done deal, it wouldn’t hurt to pump some positive field reports into BUPERS while he was waiting. Especially if the incoming data addressed the area where the major’s résumé was the thinnest. Which was actual combat.
While Santana knew Quinlan had never gone down to the planet’s surface, those who read the report would assume he had, and would give the portly officer at least partial credit for what would appear to be a successful mission after Santana’s self-critical comments had been removed. When the cavalry officer’s eyes came up off the last page, Quinlan’s were waiting for him. “So,” the major said mildly. “Unless you spotted a factual error of some sort, I would appreciate your signature.”
Santana wanted to object—but had no grounds to do so other than his suspicions. Which, were he to voice them, would sound churlish and ungrateful. So, there was nothing he could say or do, other than to sign the report and return the stylus to Quinlan’s obsessively neat desk. “Excellent,” the other man said, as he took the hard copy and put it aside. “Now that we have that out of the way we can talk off the record. Man-to-man if you will. Beginning with your proclivity for insubordination.”
It was at that point that Santana understood how skillfully he had been manipulated. Though unwilling to cast the outcome of the mission in a negative light where official records were concerned, lest that spoil his long-awaited promotion, Quinlan was free to say whatever he chose. The hatch was open too, which meant Private Kaimo was intended to hear, so she could share the high-level drama with her peers. “Yes,” the major continued, as if in response to an unvoiced objection from Santana. “Gross insubordination. Which, if it weren’t for the pressures of combat, I would feel compelled to put into writing.”
My God, Santana thought to himself. He’s speaking for the record! On the chance that I’m recording him!
“But it’s my hope that a verbal warning will suffice,” Quinlan said reasonably. “When I give orders, I expect them to be obeyed, regardless of the circumstances. Understood?”
There was only one answer that the cavalry officer could give. “Sir, yes sir.”
“Good,” Quinlan said contentedly. “It’s my hope that you will prove to be a more reliable leader than your father was.”
The surprise that Santana felt must have been visible on his face because the other officer reacted to it. “Yes,” Quinlan confirmed. “Back when I was a newly hatched lieutenant, and your father was a staff sergeant, we served together. Unfortunately, I found Sergeant Santana to be a somewhat hardheaded young man who was frequently disrespectful and occasionally insubordinate. Which is, I suppose, how you came by it.”
“Top” Santana had been killed fighting the Thraks inside the Clone Hegemony. During the years prior to being admitted to the academy, Santana had spent very little time with his father. No more than twelve months spread over eighteen years. Just one of the many disadvantages of being born into a military family. But Santana remembered the man with the hard eyes, knew what he expected from the officers he reported to, and could imagine the extent to which Second Lieutenant Quinlan had fallen short. “Yes,” the cavalry officer replied gravely. “My father made a strong impression on me.”
“Enough said,” the major replied, as if conferring a favor. “We’ll be back on Adobe six days from now—where we can build on this experience to make the battalion even more effective. Dismissed.”
Most of us are going back, Santana thought to himself. But four of our legionnaires will remain here. The dark-haired officer rose and saluted.
Quinlan made use of his swagger stick to acknowledge the gesture, let the back of the chair absorb his considerable weight, and watched Santana leave. I own you, the officer thought to himself. And, when the need arises, I will spend you as I see fit.