A Fighting Chance (25 page)

The holes had been filled in, laser-inscribed metal markers had been placed at the head of each grave, and the troops were waiting for him to say something. Santana knew that some of them believed in God and some didn’t. But all of them believed in each other and those who had gone before. So Santana read the words that Legionnaire Alan Seeger had written before his death in World War I on Earth. It began:

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

And ended:

But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

“It is,” Santana finished solemnly, “our way. The way of the Legion. And it has been for more than a thousand years.”

Ponco, who like others present had already died in battle, felt a special kinship with Seeger. And a sad longing as she looked at Santana. Because even though both of them were alive, it was in very different ways, and what her heart wanted could never be.

Santana allowed a moment of silence. Then, conscious of what had to be done, he spoke again. “As is so often the case in war, there is no time to grieve. And won’t be until our mission has been accomplished. After discussing the matter with Captains Rona-Sa, Kimbo, and Ryley, I have come to the conclusion that the only way we can realistically hope to accomplish our objective is to divide the battalion into two groups.

“The first section under the command of Captain Rona-Sa will include the tractors, quads, and those bio bods who were severely wounded during the ambush. They will be accompanied by two platoons of troops who will provide security. Once group one arrives in Baynor’s Bay, they will seek additional medical attention for the wounded and establish a firebase.

“The second section, under my command, will consist of Captain Ryley, Lieutenant Ponco, and a force of thirty-four people. Half of them will be T-2s. This team, which will operate as two platoons, will be able to move quickly and take the bugs by surprise. And, even if we fail to accomplish that, the presence of seventeen T-2s will provide the company with overwhelming firepower. Thank you for your bravery and constancy. That will be all.”

The troops were dismissed a few seconds later. And as they took their places in their newly re-formed squads and platoons, Santana made his way over to the place where Rona-Sa was talking to Kimbo. Both officers had been wounded. They came to attention as Santana arrived. “As you were, gentlemen. I’m sorry to say that both of you look like hell warmed over.”

Rona-Sa was leaning on a homemade crutch. He had been hit by three darts during the ambush. But thanks to both his size and Hudathan physiology, he had survived. Kimbo had a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his head. “There’s no need to add insult to injury, sir,” he said with a grin. “Haven’t we suffered enough?”

“Sorry,” Santana replied contritely. “Now remember . . . I want you to maintain a high profile as you withdraw. We know the bugs supplied the O-Chies with weapons, so it’s logical to suppose that the indigs will be watching. And while the Ramanthians track you back to Baynor’s Bay, we’ll run straight down their throats.”

Rona-Sa was anything but happy with the assignment. “If you say so, sir. But I can still ride and respectfully request permission to accompany group two.”

“Permission denied, Captain. Your job is to get well—and get the rest of the battalion back safely. There is a very good chance that your column will be attacked by the O-Chies or Ramanthian aircraft, or both. So it’s very important that the group has an experienced officer to provide leadership.”

Rona-Sa’s face was expressionless, but Santana could tell that he was somewhat mollified. “Sir, yes sir.”

Confident that group one was in good hands, it was time for Santana to turn his attention to group two. Preparations were already under way. The first step was to repair all of the T-2s that could be repaired, a process that often involved using parts salvaged from cyborgs killed in action. So that in some cases the neatly mounded graves held little more than a badly mangled brain box.

Then, once the T-2s were fully operational, it was necessary to perform preventive maintenance on them. That included replenishing their ammo bins and mounting missile launchers on every other unit. There wouldn’t be any reloads. But the SAMs would give the company a limited ability to engage enemy aircraft. Meanwhile, those T-2s not encumbered by missiles were equipped with backpacks. That didn’t leave much room for the flesh-and-blood riders, but it couldn’t be helped.

The company’s bio bods were equipped with helmets, body armor, and a variety of weapons. More than half of them were legionnaires who were not only combat veterans—but had the technical skills required to keep the cyborgs up and running. Ryley came forward to meet Santana as he approached the column. The former militia officer still had a supercilious air, but the legionnaire had come to trust him. “We’re ready, sir.”

“Excellent. Let’s mount up. I’ll take the point, and you ride drag. We’ll switch places in two hours. Remember . . . If I fall, carry on. The Confederacy will be counting on you.”

Ryley nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Keep it closed up back there.”

Five minutes later, both officers were mounted, strapped in, and all of the radio checks were complete. A new reporting structure had been put into place. That meant new call signs and the need to memorize them. “This is Alpha One,” Santana announced. “Alpha One-Three will provide our eye in the sky—and Alpha One-Four has the lead on the ground. Maintain visual contact with the team in front of you at all times. Let’s move out. Over.”

And with that, Dietrich and his T-2 went into motion. They could see Ponco’s alphanumeric symbol on their HUDs as well as those of the people behind them. So their job was to follow the recon ball while keeping a sharp eye out for obstacles on the ground and any threats the Intel officer might have missed.

Ponco was flying about fifty feet off the ground as she wound her way in and out of the trees. The task was to stay ahead of the column but not too far ahead, and monitor the level of the forest that the O-Chies liked to use as their arboreal highway. Because it was important to not only prevent another ambush but kill any scouts before they could get back to the Ramanthians and report the truth: Part of the battalion was in retreat, but the rest was coming on fast. And Santana was counting on her.

The first couple of hours were exhilarating. Having been freed from the constraints imposed on them by the slow-moving column, the cyborgs were free to run. Once the correct intervals were locked in and a suitable rhythm had been established, the T-2s were able to make a steady twenty-five to thirty miles per hour. That pace couldn’t be sustained, of course, since there were rivers to cross and other obstacles to deal with, but the average speed was still much higher than anything the battalion had been able to manage during the previous week. So Santana felt good.

His surroundings were little more than a green blur, there were moments of what felt like weightlessness as Joshi jumped over fallen trees, and the occasional
pop
as an insect came into violent contact with Santana’s visor. But after a couple of hours had passed, Santana began to tire. And he knew that the rest of the troops felt the same way. However, it was important to push the company, and he did. So that by the time the light had begun to fade and Santana called a halt, the team had covered nearly two hundred miles. It was an accomplishment that put them only two days out from the G-tap.

But to maintain that pace, Santana knew it was important to perform maintenance on the cyborgs. So rather than eat, pee, and push on, he granted the company an eight-hour respite. Although once the bio bods consumed their rations, carried out repairs, and stood an hour of guard duty, they would be lucky to get five or six hours of sleep. Instead of taking the time and energy required to build a marching fort, Santana had the troops put out sensors and sleep within a circle of watchful T-2s.

The hours of darkness passed uneventfully, but Santana hadn’t been able to sleep as well as he would have liked and was unexpectedly sore as he made the rounds. Months had passed since he had spent a full day on a T-2 that was running cross-country. But everyone else had sore muscles as well, and it gave the bio bods something to bitch about as they ate their rats, drained their bladders, and strapped in. Moments later, they were under way.

Ponco had her sensors on max. That was a good thing to the extent that it enabled her to “see” the occasional group of grazing triturators and lead the company around the massive beasts. But there was a downside as well. Cranking her sensors up to high gain resulted in a lot of visual clutter. That included the presence of arboreal animals that were of little or no threat to the company, hot spots where the sun had been baking a tree trunk for an hour, and, in one case, the wreckage of an air car that had been hanging in the canopy for years.

So when Ponco “saw” the scattering of heat blobs at a distance, she didn’t take them very seriously. Not until she got close enough to make a positive ID. That was when she took cover behind a Ba-Na tree and put out the call. “This is Alpha One-Three. I have approximately twelve—that is one-two—indigs in sight, and suggest that the column pull up while I deal with them. Over.”

Santana’s voice was concerned. “This is Alpha One. I read you. Can you handle them alone? Over.”

“Affirmative,” Ponco replied, although she wasn’t as confident as she sounded. “I’ll give you a holler if I need help. Over.”

“Roger that. The column will take a break. Over.”

Ponco’s first task was to circle around the O-Chies and place herself between them and the G-tap. Because if this particular group of indigs was hostile, she wanted to prevent them from making contact with the Ramanthians. But were they? Unfortunately, there was only one way to find out.

So Ponco darted from tree to tree until she was as close as she dared to go. Then she showed herself. The result was almost instantaneous, as the natives opened fire on her.

Ponco took evasive action, secured a good vantage point, and prepared to fire. Rather than pull the trigger manually, she chose to bring her .50-caliber weapon online and marked three targets for the onboard computer to shoot at. Then it was a simple matter to give the order, feel the recoil, and watch the symbols disappear.

Then the survivors came straight at her. Now that they knew off-world troops were in the area, they were determined to report the invasion. But they fell one after the other as Ponco marked them for death, and the computer did her bidding. Then the target blobs began to coalesce as the O-Chies banded together and charged her. They were moving up, down, and sideways as they swung from vines and jumped branch to branch.

But Ponco could deal with that, or believed she could, until a shrill tone sounded inside her “head.” The computer’s voice was emotionless. “Incoming missile. Incoming missile. Take evasive action.”

Ponco obeyed in hopes that she could shake the weapon. “Type?”

“Type R89 fire-and-forget with hunt/pause capabilities.”

Ponco wasn’t scared anymore. She was terrified. Apparently, one of the O-Chies had been armed with a Ramanthian Type 89 missile. The weapons were easy to fire and could not only track their targets but wait for a clean shot if necessary. “This is Alpha One-Three. A Type 89 missile has a lock on me. Estimated six hostiles on the loose. You’re on your own. Over.”

Then it was kill or be killed as Ponco was forced to switch her attention away from the O-Chies to the computer-controlled killing machine that was stalking her. She triggered all of the electronic countermeasure gear she had on board but knew it wouldn’t be enough in a situation where the enemy had visual contact with her.

As Ponco flitted from tree to tree and from shadow to shadow, she caught brief glimpses of the deadly thing as it darted through the foliage. It was shaped like an elongated bullet. But unlike a projectile fired from a gun, the 89 could hover before speeding in for the kill. Such were Ponco’s thoughts when Santana’s voice came over the push. For the first time in memory, he made use of her first name. “We’re ready for the little bastard, Sally. Home on my signal and come straight in.”

Ponco felt a sudden surge of hope as she swerved, flew under a thick branch, and weaved her way between sun-splashed tree trunks. “The missile is closing,” the computer announced dispassionately. “Ten to impact. Nine, eight, seven . . .”

Then Ponco was down at ground level, following a game trail through the woods, as gunfire erupted from the right flank. The missile, which had been suckered into flying past a rank of four T-2s, exploded. Pieces of the machine flew for another thirty feet before plowing into the ground.

A cheer went up as Ponco soared into the treetops. She was giddy with relief and surprised to be alive. “This is Alpha One-Three. Thank you. Over.”

“You’re welcome,” came the reply. “Close with those O-Chies and kill them. Over.”

Ponco was alive, but the job was far from over.

The next couple of days were not only physically demanding but emotionally exhausting. As the company continued to race toward the Ramanthian geo tap, a series of scrambled radio messages had come in from Rona-Sa. The larger group had been attacked by Ramanthian aircraft twice. But thanks to the heavily armed quads, two fighters had been shot down, and casualties were relatively light.