Starfist: FlashFire (28 page)

Clabber’s face went white and he wasted no time scrambling off the porch. Safely on the road back down the valley he shook his fist at the Caloons and shouted, “Yew are a goddamned fool, Timor Caloon! You are gonna mess up the best thing this village has ever had goin’ for it! Yew all’s gonna regret this, I swear and be damned, you are!”

Charlette was truly amazed at Timor’s outburst. She had never heard him talk so much since she’d come to Cuylerville. Aceta began to laugh. “Old Timor don’t ever say much, Charlette, but when he do, oh, Lord, hope yer on the other side of the world!” and she began laughing. It was the first laugh Charlette had heard out of her. Then they all began laughing. Far down the road Clabber heard the laughter and he turned and shook his fist at the Caloons again.

“Donnie,” Timor Caloon said to his son after they had laughed themselves out, “that man is trouble for you and Charlette. I think I’m a-gonna have to kill him before this is over. Maybe some other folks too. Those bastards up at the seat he deals with are all crooks, Donnie, ’n they’d slit a man’s throat soon as look at him. You was right, son, we never shoulda got involved with ’em. I think next season I really am goin’ back to growin’ grain and vegetables. Thet’ll really piss ’em off.”

“I don’t want you to do anything on my account that might bring trouble on your family,” Charlette said. She was alarmed. This is getting worse and worse, she thought despairingly. And then something that had been growing on her for a while now suddenly gelled—she was becoming attached to the Caloons!

“Don’t ya worry,” Aceta said, “we kin take good care of ourselfs. But Timor, what you think about these children here?”

“I think you need to put some distance between yourselfs and Cuylerville. When will the
Figaro
be back?”

Donnie Caloon shrugged. “Four, five months, if she makes it back at all, with the war on and all.”

“Well,” his father answered, “we better jist be on our toes until then. Mebbe it’ll all blow over. But fer right now, break out the rifles, son. We better see if we remember how to shoot. You come along too, Charlette. You was in the army. Ya oughter know a sight picture from a mess kit.”

The Caloons owned two old-fashioned projectile firearms, shoulder weapons that Timor called “rifles.” They had been designed primarily for hunting and Timor used them mainly for keeping blackbirds and other pests away from his crops.

“Each one of these will hold five of these twenty-millimeter ca’tridges in the tube magazine and one in the breach,” Donnie explained to Charlette. “You operate this one by working the slide back and forth to eject the spent ca’tridge and put another in the breach. The other, Daddy’s favorite, is semiautomatic. The gas from the ca’tridges works the action for ya, so alls ya gotta do is pull the trigger six times and she shoots six times. But this rifle is a light gun and if ya fire heavy loads it kin get away from you mighty quick.”

Charlette had qualified as an expert with the various types of handheld weapons that were standard issue in the Confederation Army, but she had only attained Marksman status, the lowest needed to qualify in arms, with the standard individual infantry weapon. But she was not afraid of guns.

“Normally we use real light shot for blackbirds, but we have heavier loads for bigger game. If you wanna bring a man down, you use these,” he held up two cartridges about seventy-five millimeters in length, one blue, the other red. “This red one has nine nine-millimeter balls in it and this blue one has one twenty-millimeter slug. Either one of these at close range will bring a man down, but watch out for the blue one because she kicks real bad.”

“How ‘close’ is close?”

“Well, the slugs are good out beyond one hundred meters, if you aim right. The balls spread out twenty-five millimeters for every meter so at three meters, about across the size of our living room, they’d hit your target with a spread of seventy-five millimeters, knock him right through the front door. Now, let’s practice a bit out back of the house.”

Charlette found that she could fire the rifles with accuracy, but for the next week her right shoulder was sore and black and blue from the recoil. Her right cheek hurt a bit too from absorbing the guns’ recoil, but that was only from the first five shots. After that, Donnie had shown her how to hold the weapons properly.

“Daddy says until we’re sure there won’t be any trouble we keep them full loaded with the safeties on, one in each of our bedrooms at night, close by during the daytime. Just remember, when you fire, press the safety stud to the left to take it off and
never
put your finger on the trigger until yer ready to shoot.”

As prepared as they were for violence, when the night visitors finally did come the Caloons slept right through it because the raiders struck not at them but at the Pickens family who lived some two hundred meters farther up the valley. There were three raiders, heavily armed. They cut Amelia Pickens’s throat and told her husband if he didn’t want his three daughters murdered as well, the thule crop next season had better be a good one. Then they disappeared into the night.

Timor Caloon emerged from the Pickens’s home, his face white with suppressed rage. “Wait here,” Timor Caloon told the horrified villagers standing around outside. He returned in a few minutes with Bud Clabber and five other men, all armed with rifles. Clabber moaned and protested his innocence but his pleas fell on deaf ears. “Ol’ Bud here, he’s volunteered to take us to visit these gent’men in Bibbsville. Donnie, go git yer gun, we’re leavin’ in a few minutes.”

“I want to come along,” Charlette said.

Timor Caloon looked to his wife, and then Donnie, who both nodded slightly. He fixed Charlette with an appraising look, turned to the crowd and asked, “Ennybody here got a spare rifle they kin loan my daughter-in-law?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Trenches and tunnels. Lieutenant General Cazombi had wanted to turn the warren of storage tunnels on the Bataan Peninsula into a warren of strongpoint-studded combat tunnels and trenches. The 3rd Provisional Division’s engineers worked valiantly, and gave Cazombi what he wanted. Those trenches and tunnels were how Cazombi’s understrength force had managed to hold out long enough for the 27th Division and then the Marines to arrive. When General Billie arrived, he made it clear that he wanted everybody in the tunnels and trenches. And he wanted the Marines in a tunnel that had strongpoints facing across a no-man’s-land without trenches. What a general wants, he gets.

Which doesn’t necessarily mean everybody else is happy.

“I hate tunnels,” Corporal Kerr muttered as he led his fire team to a strongpoint. Each Marine carried three Straight Arrow antitank weapons in addition to his blaster.

“But these are
our
tunnels,” Corporal Doyle protested.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Doyle,” Kerr growled.

Doyle looked at him indignantly.

PFC Summers studiously avoided looking at either of their bobbing heads; they carried their helmets so they could see each other in the tunnel. Why did
he
have to be the one stuck in a fire team with two corporals?

“You were on Waygone, you were on Kingdom,” Kerr said sourly. “Don’t tunnels remind you of anything?”

Doyle opened his mouth to say something, sucked his words back, and reconsidered. “Yeah, well. But they aren’t here.”

Kerr’s jaw clenched. He didn’t care whether Skinks were around or not; he had fought Skinks in tunnels on two operations, tunnels reminded him of the implacable aliens.

Summers couldn’t help himself, he looked from one corporal to the other despite not wanting to look at either. He had joined 34th FIST after the Kingdom campaign and hadn’t yet encountered the hostile aliens the Marines called Skinks. He hadn’t even
heard
of them until he reported to Camp Ellis for duty. FIST Sergeant Major Shiro had briefed the replacements on the Skinks. Until then, Summers had believed that all stories of alien sentiences—especially hostile alien sentiences—were fiction, mindless entertainments. The sergeant major’s briefing hadn’t emphasized tunnels, yet Corporal Kerr was seriously disturbed by tunnels because of the Skinks. Thirty-fourth FIST had encountered the Skinks twice, or at least Company L’s third platoon—the platoon Summers was in—had. They were the first humans to do so—at least, the first humans who lived to tell the tale.

Except that they weren’t allowed to tell anyone; 34th FIST was permanently quarantined to make sure nobody told. A shiver ran up Summers’s spine. He didn’t know whether the shiver was because of the Skinks, or because of the quarantine—he never intended to make a career of the Marines, just one adventurous enlistment, but apparently assignment to 34th FIST was for life.

Assignment to 34th FIST had proved to be more adventurous than anything Summers had ever imagined.

“Here we are.” Kerr’s voice broke into Summers’s thoughts. The fire team leader ducked into an unoccupied bunker and turned on the lights.

Summers followed Doyle into the cramped room and automatically threw a hand over his nose and mouth—the place owned a stench that would gag a kwangduk.

“Damn doggies,” Kerr swore, and kicked a piece of litter at the wall. It squelched. Clearly it was “organic.” “Look at this crud and corruption. I’ve seen kwangduk nests that were cleaner than this!”

The bunker was indeed filthy. The walls and ceiling were stained from things Summers didn’t even want to guess at. The floor probably was, too, but it was covered with so much garbage, he couldn’t see it to tell. Some of the debris was obviously organic—bone chips and globules of slimy. The fearsome odor rising from a two-liter can in one corner was evidence of its use as a latrine. And the yellowish-brown goop on the bottom of the firing slit said dumping the can through the firing slit was the flushing system.

A sudden noise sounded from some crushed cans. Summers and Doyle both jumped and pointed their blasters in that direction. A small, sharp-muzzled face peeked out from under the debris. Kerr moved fast to stomp the beast, but it was faster, skittering from its hiding place and slithering into a narrow crack in the wall of the bunker.

“The doggies
eat
those things,” Kerr snorted. “And they say Marines are animals.”

“If you’d lived here under these conditions, you’d eat them, too.”

The three turned to the new voice. Sergeant Linsman’s head hovered in the entrance to the bunker, his helmet tucked under his arm. All three of the Marines were used to seeing disembodied heads hovering in midair, none were surprised at his appearance, though both Doyle and Summers had jumped at his unexpected voice.

Linsman crinkled his nose. “I wish I could give you a high pressure hose to clean this shithole out,” he said, “but water is in short supply.” He shook his head at the mess left by the last soldiers to use the bunker. “I’ll get you some supplies to clean it up. Make it livable, I don’t know how long we’ll be stuck here.” He turned to leave, then turned back.

“Tim,” he directed his words at Kerr, “doggies say a lot of things about us. Let them. They’re just pissed off because they weren’t smart enough to join the Marines so they got stuck in the damn army.” He finished turning and vanished almost as thoroughly as if he’d put his helmet on.

Summers wondered whether Linsman was joking or if he meant it.

Kerr didn’t wait for the promised cleaning supplies; a well-worn broom with a cracked handle leaned in a corner of the bunker. He ordered Summers to use it to shove the debris into a pile and Corporal Doyle to supervise while he himself went in search of a container to haul the detritus away. Two hours later, the floor was cleared and the worst of the mess stuck to the walls, floor, and ceiling was cleaned off. But it would be some time before the stench was gone.

A twinge in his stomach made Summers think of food, but the thought of eating amid such rank odors made him gag.

“I hope they send armor,” Kerr said quietly; he was watching through the firing slit.

“Why?” Doyle’s voice squeaked on the question. He’d still been the chief clerk during the Diamunde campaign, but he remembered the tanks Marston St. Cyr’s army used, and he was smart enough to be afraid of them.

“Because we’ll have to get out of here to fight them.”

“Oh.”

“Wh-why?” Unlike Doyle, Summers didn’t understand.

“Explain it to him.”

“Ah, right.” Doyle turned to Summers. “Because we can’t use the Straight Arrows in here, and they’re the only weapons we have to use against tanks.”

Summers looked blank.

Corporal Doyle took a deep breath and assumed a lecturing tone. “The Straight Arrows are rocket powered, they can’t be safely used in an enclosed environment.” He cocked his head and looked for an indication that Summers got the implication—he didn’t. “They’re extremely loud, the bunker walls will contain the sound and maybe burst our eardrums, even with our helmet ears turned all the way down. And the rockets have a backblast. We’ll probably get fried if we fire one without space behind us for the backblast to go.”

Now Summers got it. He blanched and swallowed. Suddenly, the bunker didn’t smell too bad to eat in.

A few hours later, Summers was nearly as badly shaken as Corporal Doyle was when Kerr got his wish.

Corporal Pasquin was jolted out of an exhausted sleep when Sergeant Ratliff’s voice crackled in his helmet comm, “Second squad, up and at ’em! The bears are prowling, and we’re going hunting. Assemble on my position. Bring your elephant guns. Team leaders acknowledge.
Now!
”

“First fire team, we’re on our way,” Corporal Dornhofer said immediately.

“Second fire team, be right with you,” Pasquin reported. “We’ll race you,” he added to Dornhofer. He scrambled to his feet, popped his helmet on his head, slung his blaster, and scooped up three of his fire team’s Straight Arrows. He saw PFC Shoup’s disembodied head looking a question at him—Lance Corporal Longfellow was already standing and armed, waiting impatiently by the entrance to their bunker.

Pasquin flipped up his helmet screens to expose his face, and said, “Grab your weapons, Shoup, we’re going out to fight tanks.” He headed for Longfellow. Shoup grabbed his helmet and weapons and followed Pasquin into the tunnel.

“Third fire team, see you right away,” Corporal Dean said. “Let’s go,” he added to Godenov.

The three fire teams reached Sergeant Ratliff almost simultaneously. The squad leader was standing on a logistics retriever vehicle. He held up a bare hand, signaling his men to wait, while he listened intently to the instructions coming over his helmet comm.

“There’s a breakthrough,” Ratliff said, all business, lowering his hand when he had the orders. “We’re going to plunge out the influx and plug the hole until relieved. Dragons are waiting for us. Let’s do it.” Second squad scrambled onto the retrieval vehicle and grabbed whatever handholds they could. The retriever hummed and began rolling, picking up speed. In seconds, faster than a man could trot, it was moving through connecting tunnels to a winding, baffled exit tunnel, where the Marines dismounted. Staff Sergeant Hyakowa met them and directed them into a waiting Dragon. Corporal Taylor and second gun team were already in the Dragon. Hyakowa followed them up the Dragon’s ramp. The amphibious vehicle rose onto its air cushion and sped off, trailing another Dragon with Ensign Bass, second squad, and the platoon’s other gun team. Hyakowa picked up the comm that allowed him to communicate with the Dragon crew and plugged it into his helmet.

Minutes later, the Dragon swerved to an abrupt stop and began backing up, firing plasma cannons as it went. It slewed around and its ramp dropped with a clank.

“They’re on our right,” Hyakowa said into first squad’s circuit. “Two hundred meters plus. Pick your targets; we don’t have firepower to waste.”

The Dragon had backed into defilade behind a coral outcropping. The top of the outcropping was jagged, vaguely resembling the crenellations of a medieval castle wall. First squad scrambled up the rocky face and found positions where they could look over it without exposing any more of themselves than they had to. A hundred meters to their right, second squad was doing the same in a field of broken boulders. The gun teams stayed behind; their assault guns wouldn’t be much good against tanks. If the tanks had infantry support, though, the guns would move into position to take them on.

Pasquin swore when he looked between two small peaks on the top of the coral outcropping. Unless Ensign Bass had managed to come up with more Straight Arrows, third platoon had fewer than sixty of the tank killers. It looked like there were more tanks than that chugging through the gap they’d blown in the defensive works two hundred meters away. He slid the magnifier screen into place and swore again—what looked like an entire battalion of infantry was moving among the tanks and leading them.