Stark's Command (34 page)

"Your right?" Vic questioned, looking at the display. "No problem. Sergeant Sanchez is dealing with an enemy force in that area."

"He gonna push 'em into me?" Taylor demanded.

"Negative. The enemy is trapped between Sanchez and another friendly force. They won't be going anywhere."

"Okay. My medic's on the way. I'll keep a manual sweep going just in case anybody's hiding somehow."

"Good idea," Vic approved. "We still don't know how they got in here without being spotted."

Stark broke in, speaking with deliberate control. "Sanch, Corporal Gomez needs your help fast. They've taken casualties."

"Understood," Sanchez replied with apparent calm. "We are overrunning the rear guard for that location now. Corporal Gomez will be relieved momentarily."

"Thanks, Sanch. I owe you another." Stark let his hands fall limply, then looked over at Reynolds. "What else, Vic? What else should we be doin'? We're missing somethin'."
A ghost.
Stark stared upward, trying to divert his mind from recent tragedy, squinting as if he could see through the rock ceiling to space above. "There's gotta be a pickup out there, Vic. A shuttle hangin' around to drop in again and pull these guys out. Tanaka—" He bit off the name, glaring at nothing for a moment. "Tran. Call the orbital defenses. Tell them there's a shuttle out there we haven't detected. They've got to be spoofing our sensors, but the civs spotted it for a sec. Tell our people to do a manual scan and coordinate it with the civ scans. I want that shuttle."

"Yes, Commander."

"And tell Wiseman. One of our armed shuttles might be able to nail it."

"Ethan."

He stared at her, emotions running riot inside. "What?"

"We want prisoners." Stark looked away. "Ethan, we need prisoners. To interrogate. To find out exactly who launched this attack."

"Yeah. And get even with 'em. Everybody, listen up. I need some prisoners."

"These guys ain't surrendering, Stark!"

"I know. See what you can do." He glanced at Vic. "Happy?"

She shook her head. "I can't remember happy, Ethan. Not right now."

Stark hesitated another moment, then called up vid from Sanchez's armor. Smoothly gliding down a hall, a half-dozen armored figures just ahead, their backs overlain with comfortingly friendly symbology. Stopping. Kneeling, rifles aimed down the hall, where a cluster of enemy symbology displayed raiders firing around the next corner, still oblivious to the trap closing on them. Sanchez's vid shifted as he stood, then Stark heard him call out over his suit's external speaker. "Surrender immediately!" Then the vid dropped as Sanchez did, avoiding a wave of incoming bullets, the soldiers in front of him firing back, pausing as the enemy fire broke off, then leaping to their feet and charging forward. "They are trying to break out!" Sanchez commanded his troops. "Keep on them."

The end of the hall, a corner littered with expended ammunition clips and cluttered with bodies in Mark V armor, then around the corner, Stark fighting dizziness as he held on to Sanchez's vid picture. Over more bodies, a couple of them still dropping to the floor with nightmare slowness in the low gravity. Stopping, where one remaining figure stood, hands high, weaving slightly, bright red blood spreading slowly down its leg from a jagged tear in the armor near one hip. On the other side of the prisoner Corporal Gomez was visible, her weapon lined up, face rigid. Stark toggled a comm circuit as fast as he could, appropriating Sanchez's external speaker. "Corporal Gomez! Lower your weapon. Now."

She jerked in reaction, staring past the enemy soldier, then slowly brought the weapon barrel down.

"You believe she would have killed the prisoner?" Sanchez asked Stark.

"Sanch, I would've been real tempted in her place. Where's Private Mendoza?"

Sanchez repeated the question to Gomez, who pointed wordlessly to the room where Lieutenant Mendoza's leap had ended.

"Get a medic in there, Sanch," Stark urged.

"Of course." Sanchez raised one hand, a finger singling out another soldier and beckoning her forward. "In there, please. There are wounded. Commander Stark, we appear to have eliminated all resistance in this area of the headquarters complex."

"Roger. Taylor's company is running sweeps through the rest of headquarters, but it looks like we nailed all of 'em." Stark's voice sounded thin even to himself. "I'm coming down there. Just hold on a sec." Stark turned to Vic, fighting down another dark vision. "It's all over. I'm not needed here now." The words came out as a half-question, directed her way.

Reynolds nodded quickly. "Right. Go ahead, Ethan. I'll let you know if there's anything else."

Stark hesitated, one foot angling toward the door. "Murphy? They get to him in time?"

"They got to him. They don't know whether or not it'll be in time yet. The human body can only take so much punishment."

"I know." He ran, yanking aside the battered barrier, duct tape falling away in graceful, gentle twists and turns like some sort of clumsy confetti. The halls were oddly hushed now, without the din of battle echoing, and without the normal sounds of business being conducted by the men and women who lived and worked here. Stark reached the area where Sanchez waited, his helmet unsealed, his face emotionless. Gomez stood slumped, back against the wall, her rifle trailing barrel-down from one hand, her face bleak. "Anita. You okay?"

"Sí, Sargento."

"Good Lord." Stark stared at the armored bodies lying about. In the rush of action, he hadn't bothered tallying symbology for dead enemies. Now he found himself shaking his head in wonder. "You did this?"

"Me an' Mendo, and his dad. The Lieutenant." Something about the way she said the last two words gave them a grim finality.

"The medic still in there? With Mendo and his dad?"

Gomez, her eyes hooded, jerked her head in negation. "No. Not anymore. The medic couldn't help. That Lieutenant, he saved us,
Sargento."

Stark stared wordlessly at the epitaph, then walked silently to gaze into the room where Mendo knelt next to his father, heedless of the pool of blood around him. Strange, yet oddly right, that tears fell so slowly on the Moon, as if only here could human grief slow time. Stark retreated silently until he stood beside Gomez and Sanchez once more. "Damn. Damn it all."

The words hung there a moment, then Sanchez began speaking quietly, the elegant phrases in strange contrast to his battle armor and ready weapon. "This evening there was no glory left, but the terror of the broken flesh, which had been our own men, carried past us to their homes.' "

Stark closed his own eyes briefly. "Sounds like you're quoting somebody, Sanch."

"Yes. An Englishman named Lawrence."

"A Brit, huh? Which war he fight in?"

"The First World War."

"I remember Mendo talkin' about that war."
Funny the things I don't know about Sanch even after fighting beside him for years. Funny how much we all keep inside.
"That war sounded even stupider than the wars we've fought." A moment more of brooding, then Stark turned to Corporal Gomez. "We'll make sure Mendo's got privacy, Anita. As much as he needs."

"Sí.
That was one good officer,
Sargento."

"Yeah."

"Never thought I'd meet one like that. I never thought I'd care when one got nailed. I was gonna try to go. Me. Get the extra ammo we needed." The words spilled out rapidly, as if they had been held in by great effort. "The Lieutenant said no. He said a commander had to . . . had to choose the right person for a job. Said I was the best fighter, and Mendo was good, too. Then he said somethin' to Mendo, and he was gone. I couldn't stop him. Where are we gonna find another officer like that,
Sargento?"

"Exactly like that? I dunno. But we're gonna need more officers like him, Anita. What about you?"

"Huh?" Gomez looked up in disbelief.
"Sargento,
I ain't good enough for that. I sure ain't as good as he was."

"You could be. At least you could try."

She glanced back to the room where Mendo grieved. "I guess, maybe."

"Think about it. How'd you realize these guys were enemy before they nailed you, anyway?"

"That's that Mark V armor,
Sargento.
I seen vid of it in a lecture, once. I knew we didn't have none."

"You saw it once." Stark exchanged a glance with Sanchez, who had been unable to prevent a brief but unmistakably impressed expression from flowing across his face, then focused on the dead enemy again, shaking his head. "Why'd they keep trying to come down here? Why not backtrack and take another route? It would have been easy to bypass this spot."

Sanchez followed Stark's gaze. "I can only guess, but I believe we will find their Tacticals mandated this approach, probably to ensure multiple attack routes were followed and any defenders such as your Corporal's group were tied down."

"That's right," Gomez agreed forcefully. "If they'd pulled back, we coulda just shifted to cover the next hallway. They couldn't move faster than us 'cause we had the, uh, interior lines of communication."

"Interior lines?" Stark stared at his Corporal again. "Where'd you learn that phrase, Anita? Another vid lecture?"

She took a deep breath, then smiled tightly. "No. From the Lieutenant. Like the North at Gettysburg, right?"

"I guess." Stark shook his head in disbelief, then slapped Gomez's upper arm. "You did great. You need time off now."

"No,
Sargento.
No. I don't need time to sit around thinking. I don't want to. Got a job to do."

"Yeah. Okay." He looked over at Sanchez meaningfully. "I'm sure you'll be kept busy. But don't forget the chaplains. And if you need some time to react, you let us know.
¿Comprendo?"

"Sí."
She straightened, bringing her rifle up to port arms and facing the room where Lieutenant Mendoza lay. "Right now, I gotta do some sentry duty."

"One of Sanchez's people can handle that."

"No. My job. I owe it."

"Understood. Sanch, thanks for getting here."

Sergeant Sanchez shrugged noncommittally, even as the regular lighting came back to life, painfully bright after the diminished glow of the emergency lights. "I was not far away when the alarm sounded, and was able to borrow some armor."

"Lucky for us. Go ahead and hand this area over to Taylor's people and let your soldiers go. I've got some more stuff to do now, but I'll see you around."

"Certainly."

Sanchez began issuing orders to his soldiers as Stark strode away, trying to focus on the next task and not think of the friendly casualty count. "Vic. Anything happening?"

"Just running a final sweep for any lurkers. I've got Campbell standing by for you."

"Patch him in. Campbell?"

"Yes." The Colony Manager sounded a bit breathless, as if he had been the one recently engaged in combat. "Sergeant Reynolds told me everything is okay, now."

"That's right. Thanks for standing by us."

"Standing by you, and with you, is no longer an option, Sergeant Stark. We're in this together."

"Damn straight." Together. Mil and civs.
Maybe something good is gonna come from this whole mess.
"Gotta go. We're still picking up pieces, but everything's secure. I'll give you a full report later." Stark switched circuits again. "Vic? Anything else?"

"No, just—wait. Ah-hah. Wiseman found your shuttle."

Stark tensed. "Did she nail it?"

"Not yet. It's running like a bat out of hell. Never seen a shuttle with that kind of moves."

"Something special. Nice to know we rated the best, isn't it?"

"I could have done without that compliment," Vic stated bitterly. "I've got a prisoner count for you."

"How many?" Stark asked with forced mildness.

"Three. We count thirty-seven dead."

"So it was a platoon-strength raid." About the number of combat-loaded troops a single shuttle could carry. "Any wounded?"

"Those three
are
the wounded."

Only three, out of an attack force totaling forty. Not mercenaries, then, not that Stark had thought they were. Mercs didn't fight to the death, not when surrender was a realistic option. "Where are they?"

"Stacey Yurivan came in with Taylor's company. She's got the prisoners in this conference room." A symbol popped up on Stark's HUD, directing him to the location. "You sure you want to see them right now?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I can handle it." Stark closed his thoughts down, blocking out emotion, focusing solely on procedure, then walked into the room.

Two fire teams from Taylor's company stood against the walls, weapons at ready, faces hard and angry. The prisoners, two men and one woman, stood rigidly erect despite their hands being bound behind them. Stripped of battle armor, their uniforms displayed no sign of rank or nationality. Stark eyed them coldly, not letting his fury show. "Who sent you?" Their eyes didn't even flicker in response to the question. "Where'd you get the latest American equipment?" Still no response. Stark singled out a tall, blond male with a huge bruise marring the left side of his face. "Where are you from?" Silence.

Whoever they are, they're pros,
Stark thought bleakly. Professional soldiers, and very well-trained ones.
Not Americans, though.
Even without the evidence of the missing dogtags, they looked too much alike, carrying the similarity of nationalities that most countries still reflected. Only an American unit, drawn from generation upon generation of immigrants from everywhere on Earth, resembled all the peoples of the planet in its polyglot makeup. Some other country's military had provided these soldiers, hiring them out for the money it would bring and whatever American gratitude came with it.

"Okay. Have it your way." Stark turned to Stacey Yurivan, standing nearby with a wolf-snarl fixed on her face. She'd gotten to be pretty good friends with Jill Tanaka, he remembered. "Interrogate them."

Yurivan's snarl took on a hint of pleasure. "Will do."

Her words set off an alarm in Stark's mind. "Interrogate" could mean many things, many illegal and most of them painful.
So what? Make them hurt,
a voice in the back of his head pleaded. He fought it down with a savage shake of his head. "Keep it legal, Stacey. You're still an American soldier."