Starfist: FlashFire (9 page)

Donnie grinned. He liked being called “stud boy.” As did most simple men, he fancied himself a great lover. And like men in general he loved having a good-looking woman confirm that for him. “I know, Hon’, I know. I’ll rustle us up somethin’ right here! I got the fixin’s! You lay there and smoke a bit and I’ll get started!” Completely naked, he got out of bed and without bothering to dress, began banging pots around in the small kitchen.

For weeks Fort Seymour had existed under a state of virtual siege. Only the most essential business authorized military personnel to make trips off post and only under heavy armed escort. Charlette claimed she could get out when she was not needed in her job at the post quartermaster laundry by using an unguarded gate at the back of the post. As he did everything, Donnie took the statement at face value, only briefly wondering if it was very smart of the military, leaving a gate unguarded after there’d been so much trouble at Fort Seymour. Then he shrugged off the thought; that was somebody else’s business and if it enabled Charlette to be with him, more power to the unguarded gate.

“How’d things go last night?” Charlette asked from the bed.

“Oh, same old shit. More heavy stuff comin’ in, comin’ in. Bunch of cars last night, from Mylex, ’n last week we had bulldozers from Sagunto. Well, maybe not bulldozers, cranes, I’d guess. You know, with the long arms stickin’ out the cabs? Lotsa ’em, all lined up under canvas out at the port. ’N night before last, whole bunches of people from Cabala come in. Soldiers on vacation.”

Charlette suppressed a laugh. Nobody, not even anybody from Cabala would ever take a vacation on Ravenette. All she needed now was to see for herself. “Think they’ll be stayin’ long, Donnie? Did they bring much baggage with ’em?”

“Baggage? Oh, yeah. Maybe they’s here for manures or whatever they call those games. I dunno, but they was scads of ’em out there. You know, I thought maybe about joinin’ up? Folks keep sayin’ there’s gonna be a war? I went to see a recruiter, you know? He tole me to come back later, my job was too important for me to go for a soldier,” he said proudly as he cracked eggs into a skillet. Donnie often rattled on like this. That was another thing Charlette liked about the man, all she had to do was punch the right button and he’d launch into a very useful monologue.

“I wouldn’t want you to go into the army, Donnie. Who’d cook me up eggs in the morning?” Donnie laughed happily. Charlette rolled onto her side. “Hey, Donnie, suppose I go with you tonight? I’d like to get out and about instead of being cooped up around here.”

“Sure? Ain’t you afraid of gettin’ picked up?” There was genuine concern in Donnie’s voice. Then, like the big child he was, he brightened to the idea. “Well, you ride with me and there’s no problem! I’ll take you as my helper! Anyone asks, I’ll say I’m trainin’ you for the job! There’s room on my bike! But won’t they miss you back at the laundry?”

“No, Studly. I’m off until day after tomorrow. But maybe I’ll nip back in tonight, after we’re done.” Actually, the army quartermaster laundry facility at Fort Seymour was overworked, ever since the post exchange operation closed down because General Cazombi had ordered the local civilian personnel employed there off the installation as a security measure.

Charlette Odinloc, Sergeant Charlette Odinloc, Army Intelligence, rubbed her feet together and drew deeply on the cigarillo. Donnie Caloon really was a stud and the smell of the eggs and bacon he was cooking up, mixed with the aroma of strong coffee, made her stomach growl. She’d decide for herself tonight if the “cars” parked at the port were tanks, tank retrievers, or artillery pieces. The “vacationing” military personnel with their “baggage” could only be infantry reinforcements, that was very good to know. That information had to get back to the Division G2 ASAP. Without a string-of-pearls in orbit and the division’s recon activities severely limited, a ride in the country might be very productive. But right now—

“Come on, babybug!” Donnie gushed, “Come and get it!” He placed two huge platters heaped with golden scrambled eggs and rashers of bacon on the table. Not even slightly embarrassed standing there buck naked, facing Charlette as she slid nude from under the sheets, he almost pounded his chest with joy. “Honeybun, I ain’t had so much fun since the hawgs ate my little brother!” he laughed. He was such a simple boy.

Charlette permitted herself a sly grin as she slipped quickly into a vacant chair. They began eating. Donnie forked masses of eggs into his mouth, slurped from a cup of steaming black coffee, leaned across the table, and whispered conspiratorially, “Honeybun, you got the best rack of tits the Good Lord ever did put on a mortal woman!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Private Alee Solden, first squad, second platoon, Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st Brigade, 3rd Provisional Infantry Division, Confederation Army, wiped the condensation off his helmet’s faceplate and sighed. “I can see better with this thing up.” Standing orders were that during the hours of darkness every man on the perimeter was to keep his eyes glued to his night-vision optics, despite the fact that anti-intrusion devices had been scattered everywhere within a kilometer of Fort Seymour’s main gate. But staring through the optics all night long was just impossible to do. Risking possible company punishment, Solden lifted the plate and immediately the dim outlines of the street in front of the gate disappeared, replaced by the dense, white fog. But the air smelled good and fresh and reminded him briefly of the open fields of home on Carhart’s World.

“Solden! Stay alert and stop messing with your gear,” his squad leader’s voice crackled in his ear.

How the hell does Sergeant Carman know I’ve got this goddamned plate raised? Solden wondered, lowering it into place immediately. Good NCOs had an uncanny ability to know what was going on and Carman was a good squad leader. And he wouldn’t report the infraction to the lieutenant, not so close to the end of the company’s tour on the perimeter. “This fog ain’t natural, Herbie,” Solden whispered in reply.

“I can’t see shit through these optics,” PFC Mort Stuman, complained, wiping the moisture off the M72 Straight Arrow antiarmor rocket the pair had been issued.

“Cut the chatter, you’ll wake the other guys up,” Sergeant Herb Carman chuckled. Like the other seven men in his squad, he was thinking now of getting back to Bravo Company’s bivouac and breakfast. “Another hour to first light and we can get off the line,” he reminded his squad. No one needed reminding since everyone was concentrating on his watch now.

“Not that anyone would know when it’s first light in this crap,” someone muttered over the tactical net.

“Next guy who opens his mouth goes on shit detail when we get off the line, and I mean it,” Carman announced. The net went silent.

“All right,” Stuman whispered to Solden, “so when the tanks come rolling over us we sit here and don’t say nothing and after we’re all prisoners they’ll ask why we didn’t warn anybody and we’ll tell them, ‘Well, Sergeant Carman told us to shut up or we’d go on shit detail . . .’ ” “Shhhhhhh!” Solden hissed. “Do you hear something, Mort? I heard something!” He lowered and adjusted his night-vision optics. Carefully, Stuman switched his Straight Arrow to firing mode.

“You sure? I don’t hear or see anything!”

“I don’t know,” Solden confessed, feeling a bit silly, but his pulse was racing and now he was fully alert. “I thought I heard something like a rumble . . .” Cautiously he eased the safety off his rifle.

For two weeks Bravo Company had been pulling night guard along that section of Fort Seymour’s perimeter. The engineers had constructed reinforced firing points and bunkers that were manned around the clock, but for two weeks nothing had happened. They had been warned by G2 that the Coalition forces were massing armor to use against them. To improve their fields of fire, and to the great consternation of the citizens of Ravenette, the engineers had evacuated the nearby buildings and demolished some of them, leaving only one approach route: the main road that led to the gate, called “The Strip” by Fort Seymour’s garrison. The entire company was equipped with the Straight Arrow. It would be suicide for armor to approach them down that road. At least, that’s what they hoped.

“I wish they’d try it, I truly wish they would,” Stuman was muttering half to himself, “I wanna get some so bad I can taste it.” Most of the men of the 3rd Provisional Infantry Division, which had been formed on Arsenault, the Confederation’s training world, had never seen combat, but they all believed they were ready for it. They also believed, with the certainty of young, unblooded soldiers, that the Coalition rebel forces were not capable of taking them on.

The early morning, fog-shrouded silence enveloped the men of Bravo Company.

Private Solden’s eardrums ruptured, so he never heard the air-to-ground rocket detonate on his firing position. The force of the explosion picked him up, flung him backward, and slammed him into the wall of the bunker. He lost consciousness instantly.

Major General Alistair Cazombi was known as “Cazombi the Zombie” for a good reason: he never showed emotion, never even cracked a smile; well, almost never. The one time he did reveal how he really thought about something was the reason he’d been exiled to Fort Seymour on Ravenette. As the Director for Personnel to the Combined Chiefs of Staff, General Cazombi was fully aware of the reason why the Marines of 34th FIST, men he had come to know and respect, were quarantined on Thorsfinni’s World. He did not agree with that policy, nor did he agree with the government’s policy of keeping the alien threat a secret from the Confederation’s member worlds. And he said so in meetings with Admiral Porter, the Chairman of the Combined Chiefs.

“I could have you sent to Darkside for even talking about this!” Porter had raged at last. This time they were meeting alone, but Cazombi had also brought the subject up when other members of the staff were present; he was determined not to let the matter rest.

“Sir, if we trust our Marines to fight the Skinks we can trust them to keep quiet about them too. Confining them like this is tantamount to sending them to Darkside.”

“Well, who ever heard of a twenty-three-year-old with a snout full of beer who can keep his mouth shut?” Porter said, echoing a statement his personnel director had made in a previous meeting.

“Sir, that’s a good point, we must assume somebody on Thorsfinni’s World already knows about the Skinks. And what about the people on Kingdom? They’ve seen the Skinks up close and personal. A lot of people other than our Marines know about them, and we can’t impose quarantines on whole worlds.”

Admiral Porter drummed his fingers on his desk, showing his impatience with Cazombi’s pressing this point. “General, nobody on Thorsfinni’s World is going to believe the sea stories of a drunken Marine!

You know the Marines are the biggest braggarts ever. And the Kingdomites? Hell’s bells, General, they’re religious fanatics! They’re always having ‘visions’ and ‘epiphanies’ and all that nonsense! Nobody believes them on principle. And the fact is, the word has not gotten out and it won’t, as long as the quarantine keeps those blabbermouth Marines away from the rest of humanity!”

Cazombi took a breath. “Admiral Porter, hasn’t anyone in this government figured it out yet? We’re trying to keep the biggest secret in history from people who absolutely need to know about the threat.”

“That order comes from the President herself, General!” Porter banged his fist on his desk. “Do you realize the panic that would ensue if we let the word out now, without preparation? We’re reinforcing our garrisons in the outlying worlds for that very reason. When the people have all the protection we can give them, then they’ll be informed as to the reasons why—and not until then! We do not want them thinking we’re leaving them on their own. We let the word out now and every world in Human Space will be begging for troops we don’t have.”

“But they are on their own! We don’t have the forces to provide the protection everyone needs. The Skinks can strike anywhere, anytime, and we cannot block all the holes in our defense, not with the available forces. And what happens if we have a major war of our own on our hands? We can’t fight on two fronts at the same time.” Now Alistair Cazombi finally lost control and blurted out the words that sealed his fate: “I wish sometimes someone would go to the goddamned press with this story and blow the whole thing.”

Porter’s mouth fell open. “You—you—” was all he could get out at first. “You are a brave and very competent officer,” he finally gritted. “You’ve served with distinction on my staff, and your third star is virtually assured—”

“Admiral, you cannot bribe me—”

“Shut up!” Porter thundered. He took a moment to regain his composure. “You will end this train of thought immediately! One more mention of the alien threat and I swear by the Holy Martyrs’s twisted guts, you are finished here.”

“Admiral,” Cazombi replied coolly, “you and everyone who supports this stupid policy are a goddamned ass. The farther I can get away from you the better.”

And Admiral Porter obliged him.

So Major General Alistair Cazombi found himself sitting quietly in a strategy meeting as Brigadier General Balca Sorca and his staff tried desperately to devise a defensive plan to deal with what everyone knew was coming, a Coalition attack on Fort Seymour. Bitterly, Cazombi reflected that if the Confederation government had let everyone know about the Skinks, the reinforcement of Fort Seymour would have been seen in a different light and they might not now be in this pickle. But he was not at liberty to say that, even if anyone had been willing to listen.

Cazombi had been invited to the planning meeting as a courtesy because he was the ranking officer at Fort Seymour, but he was not expected to participate except insofar as the involvement of his garrison complement was concerned. The meeting had been going on for an hour before Cazombi decided to speak up.

“General,” Cazombi said, interrupting Sorca in midsentence, “do you really think a front-line defense is wise? I should think a defense-in-depth would be more effective.”

“Yes, General! We put everything up front and stop them cold. If they break through and take the main post we’re finished. We can’t let them do that.”

“Allow me to demonstrate.” Cazombi got up and moved to the huge briefing screen. “Give me an installation schematic,” he told the console operator. “Gentlemen, I’ve been here for months now and I know this post like the back of my hand. Observe the main post area here. It’s a bewildering jumble of warehouses, barracks, offices. Dead-end streets are the common rule. Get any enemy force in there and they’ll slow down.”