A Fighting Chance (7 page)

“The bad news is that we can’t repair your leg. So, rather than accompany us on the mission, I’ll have to leave you here. But I understand the bugs come by to shoot the place up every now and then, so stay sharp. I’m counting on you to protect the TACBASE and the local civilians.”

Durkee was both surprised and pleased that Santana would come to visit him.
And
put him in for a medal. His mother would be proud.

As for the leg, and limited duty, well that was something of a mixed bag. Durkee didn’t know them very well as yet, but he still felt a sense of kinship with the other legionnaires and wanted to accompany them. Still, he had a bad feeling regarding the mission and knew he’d be safer in Baynor’s Bay. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”

The sky was gray, a steady rain was falling, and visibility was limited to a half mile as Captain Jo Zarrella and Lieutenant Bo Betz led the first platoon down the hill and north through the part of Baynor’s Bay that Santana hadn’t seen the day before. The force consisted of eighteen bio bods and an equal number of T-2s. All of the quads had been left at the TACBASE because Santana wanted to emphasize mobility over brute force.

After years as a company commander and a platoon leader before that, it felt strange to ride in the four slot. And to know that if the column came under fire, it would behoove him to keep his mouth shut unless asked for advice. Otherwise, Santana would run the risk of undermining Zarrella’s credibility.

Having been sent along in the role of advisor, Captain Kimbo and his T-2 were to Santana’s right. Kimbo’s visor was up, and he looked a bit green around the edges, leading Santana to suspect that he was seasick. It was a common occurrence for anyone not accustomed to riding a T-2. But practice makes perfect, and Santana felt sure that the last thing the militia officer would want was sympathy.

Santana allowed his weight to rest against the harness as Joshi carried him past the homes that lined the beach, occasional businesses, and piles of rubble. Computer-controlled antiaircraft weapons were located at half-mile intervals. They swiveled left or right as large seabirds triggered their sensors.

After a fifteen-minute jog, the patrol arrived at a barricade that consisted of an old fishing boat, two wrecked vehicles, and at least a ton of assorted junk. Kimbo appeared to be feeling a bit better—and pitched his voice so Santana could hear it. “This marks the border between the area controlled by Colonel Antov’s Rifles and Major Temo’s Scouts. It’s more symbolic than anything else. There hasn’t been any combat. Not yet anyway.”

“We’ll try to keep it that way,” Santana replied, as the column of T-2s snaked its way around the barricade and returned to the highway. The legionnaires were wearing long slickers over their body armor, but cold rainwater still found its way past Santana’s collar and began to trickle down his back.

This time there were no clusters of welcoming citizens. The locals were present, though. They peeked from windows or stopped what they were doing to watch the off-world troops splash past. None of them smiled or waved. Santana understood. The locals had every reason to support Temo given how important her family’s pharmaceutical plant was to the local economy. But, after months of being attacked by the Ramanthians, they had to feel a little better now that some Confed troops were on the ground. Maybe that would help to bring them around. Santana’s thoughts were interrupted by a burst of static and the sound of Ponco’s voice. “Zulu Seven to Zulu Nine. Over.”

Ponco was scouting ahead. And when Santana brought his HUD (heads-up display) up, he could see a delta marked A-2 superimposed over a map of north bay. It was about half a mile ahead. “This is Nine. Go. Over.”

“A platoon of O-Chi Scouts is blocking the road. Their PL, a lieutenant named Milly Yorty, wants to speak with you. Over.”

“She’s a good officer,” Kimbo put in from his position to Santana’s right. “But not one of Temo’s favorites. Which is a good thing in my opinion.”

Santana opened his mike. “Tell Lieutenant Yorty that I’d be happy to speak with her. We’ll be there shortly. Over.”

As the distance between the houses began to close, Santana saw gaps where dwellings had been destroyed. One of them was at least three homes wide. What had been a fortified gun battery was positioned at the center of the still-steaming rubble. It appeared to have taken a direct hit, and the crew was almost certainly dead. Probably as a result of the manner in which Santana had manipulated the situation.

He felt a sudden surge of guilt, wondered if he’d been wrong to engineer the bombardment of north bay, and what Christine would think of the strategy. She was a diplomat, but a tough one, so it was impossible to know.

Then the column began to slow and came to a complete halt as Captain Zarrella’s voice came over the platoon push. “Alpha Six to Alpha One-Six. We’re going to pause here. Have the first squad take up defensive positions. Over.”

Zarrella clearly had a good grasp of the situation, and Santana felt pleased, as Lieutenant Betz acknowledged the order. Then, as Joshi came to a stop, Kimbo’s T-2 sidled up next to him. “Would you like me to go forward, sir?” Kimbo inquired.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Santana responded. “If you were to serve as a go-between, the Scouts might conclude that the Legion is taking sides. I’d like to avoid that if possible.”

Kimbo nodded. If he felt disappointed, there was no sign of it on his face as Ponco arrived. Her rain-streaked body coasted to a stop a few feet away. “The lieutenant is waiting, sir.”

“Okay,” Santana said as he hit the harness release. “I’ll go forward on foot. Sergeant Joshi can be somewhat intimidating.”

“Who,
me
?” the T-2 growled innocently.

Santana grinned, jumped to the ground, and made his way past Zarrella and her T-2 to the point where a couple of olive drab ATVs blocked the road. The heavily armed vehicles
looked
imposing. But any one of the T-2s could have cleared them away in seconds. The lieutenant was a small rain-soaked figure who came forward to meet him as her troops looked on. She was wearing a black beret with a crossed-machete insignia on it, a glistening poncho, and jungle boots. Water splashed away from them as she stomped both feet and came to attention. The salute was crisp and perfectly executed. “Lieutenant Milly Yorty,
sir
!”

Santana returned the salute. “At ease, Lieutenant. I’m Major Santana. Thanks for coming out to meet us. Especially in this downpour.”

Yorty had brown hair, a round face, and wide-set eyes. Santana thought he saw relief in them. Maybe she had been expecting a fire-breathing fanatic or something. Yorty nodded hesitantly. “You’re welcome, sir. Normally, Major Temo would be here. Or Captain Omo. But they aren’t available right now.”

Santana could tell there was more. And Yorty wanted to tell him. All he had to do was ask. “I see. If you don’t mind my asking, where are your senior officers?”

Yorty’s eyes flicked away and came back again. “There was a disagreement, sir. When it became clear that the Legion had landed, some of us felt that we should report to you for orders. Others, the major included, believe the Scouts should operate independently until certain matters have been resolved.”

“Meaning Major Temo’s claim on the governorship?”

Yorty nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I see. Well, Lieutenant, here’s the situation as I see it. Governors are named by the president of the Confederacy—and must be confirmed by the Senate. That means the lieutenant governor is in charge of civilian affairs for the moment. And it’s my understanding that she resides in the city of Tal, about a thousand miles west of here. True?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. That’s settled then. As for the Scouts, this is a time of war, which means they fall under the senior officer on O-Chi 4. And, like it or not, that’s Colonel Antov. But, as his executive officer, I can assure you that you and your troops will be treated fairly.”

“Sir, yes sir. And the others? Those who followed the major into the bush?”

“I want them to return to duty,” Santana answered. “We were sent here to tackle an important mission, and we’re going to need all the support we can get. But if Major Temo’s troops fail to report within two local rotations I will list them as deserters. And, if they attack anyone other than the Ramanthians, I’ll charge them with treason. So you might want to pass the word.”

Yorty swallowed. “Yes, sir. And Major Temo?”

“The same applies to Major Temo. Although she’s likely to face charges no matter what happens. But that won’t be up to me. Where is she anyway?”

Yorty looked at her boots and back up again. She was clearly conflicted. “May I ask what will happen if I tell you?”

“No,” Santana replied levelly. “You can’t. Please answer the question.”

There was a long moment of silence as Yorty studied her boots again. Finally, her eyes came up to meet Santana’s, and she began to talk.

It was nighttime. But, thanks to the three moons that were slowly arcing across the sky, a silvery glow pervaded the upper reaches of the forest. However, lower down, within the inky blackness that lay between the trees, nocturnal animals were locked in life-and-death battles as Ponco hovered some fifty feet above. The surface of O-Chi 4 was a dangerous place regardless, but the darkness made the cacophony of screeches, howls, and gibbering noises even more unnerving.

More than two days had passed since the landing. Roughly half of the O-Chi Scouts had reported for duty, choosing Colonel Antov and the Confederacy over the rebellious Major Temo. That was progress of a sort. But, with a group of well-armed renegades out in the bush ready to attack Baynor’s Bay at the first opportunity, Santana couldn’t go after the Ramanthians.

So with time ticking away, the decision was made to track Temo down and capture or kill her. However, first they had to close with her. And the Temo clan’s hunting lodge was up ahead. But before charging into the area with guns blazing, Ponco took a moment to look around. She had been killed twice before and had no desire to go through the process again.

Her first death had taken place when the assault boat that she and her platoon were riding in was shot down during the attempt to retake Savas Prime. Fortunately for her and a couple of other legionnaires, the navy pilot had been able to crash-land within a quarter mile of a Confed field hospital. That was when Ponco’s brain had been surgically removed from her shattered body and shipped to Adobe, along with more than twenty others.

A few days later, Ponco woke up to discover that most of her body had been left back on Savas Prime, and she was wired to a life-support system. It was a terrible shock. She wanted to cry, to sob herself to sleep, but lacked the means. A computer took note of her brain waves, administered a sedative, and put her under.

Three days later, a cheerful noncom stopped by. He offered her a job as a T-2. The other choices were to buy a civilian-style body she couldn’t afford or remain bodiless and wait. Maybe, if she and others like her were lucky, the government would grant them utilitarian spider forms as part of the much-debated veterans bill presently stalled in the Senate. Or maybe she would eventually die of old age. The choice was no choice at all.

Then, seven standard months later, Ponco had been killed all over again when a shoulder-launched missile hit the middle of her chest and exploded. Fortunately, a bio bod had had the presence of mind to find her severed head, pull her protective brain box, and hand it over to a medic. It was during the subsequent recovery process that Ponco had been invited to join military intelligence. And now, after months of additional training, she was risking her life again.
How many lives do I have left?
she wondered. There was no way to know. But she liked Santana. And was happy to serve under him.

Having checked the area, Ponco ghosted forward. Her sensors were on high gain and sensitive to even the slightest bit of heat, movement, or electronic activity. The problem was that, because they were set on max, her detection systems were producing a great deal of clutter. And all of it had to be evaluated. Most of the heat signatures belonged to local life-forms and could be ignored.

But when Ponco saw what looked like a string of lights hanging between two giant trees, she knew she was looking at a chain of proximity detectors that could pick up on the metal in her body, thereby distinguishing her from the local wildlife. That brought her to a full stop. Her voice was internalized and made no sound whatsoever. “Zulu Seven to Zulu Nine. I can’t advance without triggering a chain of proximity detectors. Over.”

There was a momentary pause followed by the sound of Santana’s voice. “This is Nine . . . Roger that. We’re almost in position. Give us three minutes and go in hard. Take out any bio bods you see. Especially those on the elevated weapons platforms that Lieutenant Yorty warned us about. Over.”

As part of Santana’s effort to make peace between the two factions, members of both the O-Chi Rifles and Scouts had been intentionally barred from participating in the mission. And that was fine except for the fact that it left the Legion to carry the load and absorb all of the casualties. “Roger,” Ponco replied. “Three and counting. Over.”

Time seemed to slow as the recon ball allowed herself to drift in among some branches. Ponco knew that the ground-assault team had to slip past the huge X-shaped animal barriers that ringed the lodge before it could proceed. Then, as the final seconds ticked away, Ponco went on the attack.

Consistent with her orders, the Intel officer sped past the chain of proximity detectors, followed a leafy passageway into the clearing beyond, and “saw” a huge blob of heat. The elaborate tree house was located about fifty feet off the forest floor, where it was safe from even the largest predators and well positioned to repel a human ground attack. No wonder Temo had taken refuge there.

But lofty though the lodge might be, it was still vulnerable from the air. And, as a Klaxon began to bleat, Temo’s soldiers were already dying. Wooden platforms had been established high in the branches of the surrounding trees. Each supported an automatic weapon and a two-person crew. All of whom were positioned to fire on the assault team below.