Starfist: Wings of Hell (20 page)

“Hurry up and wait,” Lance Corporal Isadore Godenov grumbled. “Hurry up and goddamn wait!”

Corporal Joe Dean, his fire team leader, ignored him.

PFC John Three McGinty, still a bit uncertain of his position in the fire team, the squad, and the platoon, also didn’t say anything, but he did stare at the complainer. Like Godenov, McGinty didn’t understand why, after the rush to get all of the ground combat elements of Thirty-fourth FIST planetside a hundred klicks from their objective, and then onto Dragons and headed toward that objective, the FIST had suddenly stopped with orders to stay in place. So they sat, the third fire team, first squad, third platoon, Company L, in a hole in the ground where a large tree had toppled over and its root-ball had ripped free of the earth. Dean had put out a motion detector and was occupying himself by trying to figure out what local life-forms made which signals on it. So far, all he’d positively identified was the platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Hyakowa, and a scaled animal twice the size of an Earth rabbit that hopped like a rabbit even though it didn’t look like a rabbit at all.

“I don’t like this one little bit,” Godenov complained, swiping at some tiny, exoskeletoned beasties that were crawling across his legs. He looked at Dean. “You aren’t listening to me, are you?” Dean continued to ignore him. “You’re my fire team leader, Dean-o. You should be finding out why we’re just sitting here letting these fire ants eat me up.”

“That’s
Corporal
Dean-o,” Dean said absently.

Godenov snorted.

“If Sergeant Ratliff knew anything, I’m sure he’d tell us,” McGinty offered.

Godenov gave him an “Are you really that dumb or do you have to work at it” look. “Triple John, you haven’t been in Mother Corps long enough to realize that squad leaders don’t tell their men anything. They get their rocks off by keeping their men in the dark.”

“Rabbit will tell us when he knows something,” Dean said, still not looking at Godenov. The local animal Dean had identified with his motion detector might not have looked like a rabbit, but Sergeant Ratliff did have a certain facial resemblance to a rabbit.

Godenov snorted again. “Can I at least get away from the bugs, honcho?”

Dean finally looked at him from where he lay against the side of the hole with his arms hooked over its top. Godenov was sitting in the bottom of the hole. “Move into a position where you’ll be useful if any bad guys come looking for us. Like Triple John.”

McGinty looked at his fire team leader, not sure that he wanted to be used as a good example for the more experienced lance corporal. Godenov slid his chameleon screen into place before glaring at Dean. Invisible, he scrabbled up the side of the hole and took a position on the other side of Dean from McGinty.

“See anything?” he asked.

“Not a thing, except those hopping things over there,” Dean answered. “I wish somebody would tell us what’s going on.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Godenov muttered.

“I could have sworn that Wolfman was still acting as runner for the boss,” Dean said. “Nobody told me he was assigned to my fire team.”

“What do you mean, ‘Wolfman’!” Godenov squawked. “I’m not Wolfman.”

“You’re complaining like him.”

Godenov’s glare went unseen behind his chameleon screen, but he stopped complaining. Out loud, at least.

Thirty-fourth FIST was too far away from the sky battle and the aerial attack on the Eighty-seventh Heavy Infantry Division to have seen or heard it. The only people who knew why the FIST had stopped were Brigadier Sturgeon, his ground component commanders, and their respective staffs—and, for the moment, they weren’t telling.

Brigadier Sturgeon knew what he wanted to do. He suspected that, following their breakup of the XVIII Corps’s initial attack, the Skinks felt safe from an assault in the next few hours or even days. And he had an entire battalion of Marines who had fought the Skinks in their caves and tunnels on one or more occasions—fought them and severely beat them.

Brigadier Sturgeon was in his command post—the FIST’s command Dragon—hidden under a canopy of chameleoned fabric. He was in intense conversation with his boss, Lieutenant General Carano, trying to convince the corps commander to let his infantry move ahead and tackle the caves with no more than the FIST’s organic combat support units.

“That would be suicide, Brigadier,” Lieutenant General Carano said. “I’m not going to throw away the lives of any of my people on a suicide mission.” His voice cracked. He had almost said “any
more
of my people.”

“General, we’ve got detailed maps of the tunnel system. We know they will only be able to fight us on narrow fronts. They won’t be able to bring their superior numbers to bear—and our chameleons are impregnated with neutralizer for the Skinks’ acid weapons. We can do it.”

“Your uniforms aren’t impregnated with a neutralizer for Skink rail guns!”

“Their rail guns are line-of-sight. Our chameleons make us effectively invisible. If they can’t see us, that partly neutralizes their rail guns. Besides, we don’t know that they can use their rail guns in the tunnels.”

“That’s a load of kwangduk shit and you know it, Brigadier!”

“Sir, the navy has orbit-to-surface weaponry. They can use their lasers and missiles to create a diversion by attacking the front door of the cave system while we slip in the back door. The orbital weapons can also fire into any reinforcing units coming from the other Skink bases.”

“I’m surprised that I have to remind you that’s a
gator
fleet in orbit,
Marine
!” Carano said, exasperated. “It’s got
limited
orbit-to-surface weaponry!”

“The Skinks don’t know that, sir. And they haven’t been subjected to fleet weapons before. We start hitting them from orbit, and they won’t know what to think.”

“You
think
that they don’t know that we only have a gator fleet in orbit. Are you willing to bet the lives of your Marines on an uneducated guess?” Before Sturgeon could reply, Carano shouted,
“Well, I’m not!”

Sturgeon made a short mental count to give the corps commander time to regain control, then made another proposal. “Sir, then let me do this: I’ll move forward, close enough to cover the back door, and insert my platoon that has the most experience fighting Skinks. That platoon, may I remind the general, has more experience than anybody else in fighting and defeating Skinks. It also happens to be led by my most experienced and best platoon commander.

“By moving my FIST forward, I’ll have enough strength on hand to accomplish an extraction if the platoon needs to pull out in a hurry. And the navy can cover a withdrawal of the entire FIST should a withdrawal become necessary.”

“What about the Skink aircraft? They caught us by surprise with that one.”

“Yes, sir, they did catch us by surprise. And if they use the aircraft again, we can catch them by surprise in turn when our orbital weapons start knocking them out of the sky.” Sturgeon waited for Carano to think about that.

Finally, having considered it, Carano said, “All right, Brigadier, I’ll think about your proposal. Do not advance your FIST until I give you word to do so. Do you understand me? Hold your position until I give you orders to advance.”

“Yes, sir, I understand. Thirty-fourth FIST will remain in position until I receive your order to advance.”

“Carano out.” The commander of XVIII Corps broke the connection with the Marine commander.

Brigadier Sturgeon smiled to himself. The way Lieutenant General Carano had worded his response to his final proposal, it sounded like only a matter of time before he gave the go-ahead. Sturgeon called his staff together and told them to begin making plans to send Company L’s third platoon into the Skink cave and tunnel system.

The Grand Master sat at state in his hall. Four Large Ones were protectively arrayed to his rear. Their swords were in their hands, ready for use if need be; light rippled along the sides of the blades, attesting to the strength and flexibility of the weapons and the skill of their makers. Selected Leaders and Masters, armed with acid guns, were concealed behind the delicately decorated draperies that hid the rock walls of the chamber, ready to defend the Grand Master from any intruder into the hall—or from a traitor in their midst. A diminutive female knelt gracefully at the Grand Master’s side, having already poured and tasted the steaming beverage in his cup.

The low tables arrayed on the mat-covered floor before the Grand Master’s dais had been rearranged to allow the installation of a hologram display. The display was currently blank, the low tables untenanted. But in a short time, the Grand Master’s staff and subordinate commanders would be seated at the low tables, served by more of the graceful, diminutive females. And then the hologram display would light up with its glorious images, giving the Grand Master and his major subordinates a magnificent view of the deadly surprise that the Emperor’s soldiers under his command would be inflicting upon the Earthmen.

The Grand Master smiled, remembering the surprise his fighter craft had already inflicted on the Earthmen. His eyes closed in near ecstasy as he mentally reviewed the images of more than half of the Earthman fighter craft being annihilated. His smile grew wider when he thought of how few of his own craft had been lost in the splendid air battle. His smile widened yet again when he thought of the way his fighter craft had ravaged a lightly armored division that had been advancing toward his bases, and the subsequent, ignominious retreat of the Earthman attack forces.

The only blemish on the day’s actions had been the failure of his aircraft to report that any of the enemy fighter craft or armored vehicles had the markings of the hated Earthman Marines.

No matter. The Grand Master knew the Earthman Marines were present on this world. Sooner or later, and more likely sooner, his forces would meet with the Earthman Marines. And when they did,
that
would be a victory most savory, a victory that would assure him a position just below all the Emperors’ for eternity!

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Well.” Colonel Rene Raggel, commanding officer, Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion, sighed and drummed his fingers on his desk. “Looks like we’re in for the duration.” He was talking to Sergeant Major Krampus Steiner, his battalion sergeant major, and Senior Sergeant Puella Queege, his chief clerk and reputedly the finest pistol shot in all of Human Space.

“I suppose so, sir,” Queege replied. Colonel Raggel was referring to some recent events that affected him and Queege in particular. Raggel was an infantry officer, not an MP. He’d been given the job of battalion commander by General Aguinaldo because the battalion needed a firm leader to knock it into shape after its poor performance in the war on Ravenette, where every soul in the outfit had been captured without a shot. Every soul but Queege. She had been captured later.

“Top, wipe that smile off your face.”

“I can’t help it, Colonel,” Steiner replied. “I don’t want to take this unit into a combat theater with a new CO or without my gal Queege here, so I’m just pleased as punch you two will be going with us.”

Raggel’s name had come up on the brigadier general’s list and he had been looking forward to commanding an infantry brigade in one of the divisions being sent to Haulover with the XVIII Corps. Queege had volunteered to be transferred to the Confederation Marine Corps even though that would mean a reduction in grade. She was fully qualified, single, no dependents, not too old, in good physical condition, and General Anders Aguinaldo, when he was still Commandant of the Marine Corps, had recommended her. But then Aguinaldo had frozen all transfers until the mission on Haulover was completed, and he had designated the Seventh MPs as the XVIII Corps Military Police Command, with responsibility for law enforcement and security in Sky City, the capital of Haulover, as well as control over all the other MP units assigned to XVIII Corps.

But one thing made the freeze on Queege’s reassignment a bit more palatable for her: She’d stay close to Senior Sergeant Billy Oakley, the battalion S3 Operations NCO and her coach for the recently concluded pistol match, where she’d distinguished herself as a marksman. She’d really gotten to like Oakley during their time preparing for the match. That thought made her grin, too.

“What the hell you smirking about, Senior Sergeant Annie?” Colonel Raggel groused. He knew, of course, and broke into a smile himself. In the battalion, men had started referring to Queege as “Annie” after her performance in the shooting match. That was far better than what they had been calling her before Colonel Raggel took over the battalion, “Queege Old Squeege.”

“Only thing I’m sayin’, Colonel, is I’m damned happy to have you two around,” Steiner said. “When do we pull out?”

“Two days, Top. General Carano says we’re going in first, with the Engineers, and we’re to take over the law enforcement functions for Sky City. Looks like we’re stuck together until this war is over.”

“You know what, sir, if your promotion comes through,” Queege said with a lopsided grin, “you’ll be a brigadier general in command of a battalion, a military police battalion. That’s gotta be rare.”

“Well, I don’t care, Sergeant, as long as I’m the first in history to do it. Okay, children”—Raggel stood up—“get the company commanders and the special staff in here. We’ve got a lot of work to do to be ready to embark in two days’ time. Oh, one more thing, children. General Carano says the civilians in charge on this Haulover place might not be easy to get along with so practice your smiley faces but keep your billy clubs handy.”

Senior Sergeant Puella Queege did not know if she should be pleased or upset that her transfer to the Confederation Marine Corps had been placed on hold until after the Seventh MPs’ mission on Haulover was completed. She’d had to agree to go through Marine boot camp, just like any other recruit, and take a demotion from senior sergeant to private and she wanted to get started on her new career as soon as possible. She had no doubt she’d make rank back once she had been assigned to the fleet, but she felt that giving up her status in the army was worth it if that’s what was required for her to become a Marine. But what really upset her and on the flight to Haulover made her consider withdrawing her request was her growing affection for Sergeant Oakley. They probably would never see each other again after she left the battalion for Marine boot camp and she did not look forward to that.

All her life Puella Queege had had trouble deciding if she was a man or a woman. She couldn’t help the way her body had developed, but nobody seemed able to accept her as a woman, so she’d been a tomboy in her girlhood and later, when she matured, she tried very hard to be one of the boys and that had led her, in the all-male company of army units, to booze and short-lived liaisons with men of the moment. She’d adopted the mannerisms of a hard-bitten military man because that’s what she thought she wanted to be. Until, that is, she’d come under the influence of Colonel Rene Raggel, who gave her a chance to look at life sober for a change.

Puella had never felt toward any other man the way she did Billy Oakley. She thought she had liked her former first sergeant, and she certainly felt affection now toward Colonel Raggel and Sergeant Major Steiner for the way they had allowed her to grow as a soldier and straighten herself out as a person. But that affection was based on deep mutual respect. She respected Sergeant Oakley, too, at first, but that had gradually blossomed into something else. Puella thought she might be falling in love. But she just wasn’t sure, and there was no one she could really talk to about the way she felt. All her life she’d kept her emotions bottled up and that might have been one reason why she liked drinking from bottles so much. But now, sober, she found it impossible to talk to anyone else about her feelings. But she knew Oakley liked her. And she had come to realize that she might, after so many years, really have “feelings.”

So on the flight to Haulover she threw herself into her work, and there was plenty of that.

As a very senior colonel and the commander of one of the first units to be dropped on Haulover, Colonel Raggel had been given a compartment aboard the troopship, CNSS
PFC Ron Tate,
and that is where he established his battalion headquarters with Puella and Sergeant Major Steiner occupying workstations there and sleeping there when that was required, which it often was. One day near the end of the flight, the three were busy working on separate projects: Colonel Raggel was drawing up a plan to cover the interface between his battalion and the civilian law enforcement authorities on Haulover; Sergeant Major Steiner was absorbed in reviewing a series of disciplinary recommendations forwarded by the battalion’s company commanders; and Puella was consolidating and verifying morning reports, a tedious but essential job that required her full attention.

Colonel Raggel liked to have music playing when he was absorbed in a project and that morning he was playing softly some ancient opera, when suddenly, and very unexpectedly, Puella burst into tears.

“Queege! What the—?” Sergeant Major Steiner started to his feet, regarding Puella with absolute horror. She could not have surprised him more if she’d given birth to a giant kwangduk right there in the compartment.

“Sergeant Queege, what in the world’s wrong with you?” Colonel Raggel asked. Puella was the last person in his battalion Raggel would have suspected of some undiagnosed emotional problem.

“I-I d-don’t know, sir,” Puella sobbed. She wiped helplessly at the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Queege, people don’t burst into tears without knowing why,” Colonel Raggel said gently. He walked over to Puella and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You’ve been working too hard, Sergeant. I apologize for—”

She began crying even harder.

Raggel looked to Sergeant Major Steiner for support. “Well, shit, Colonel,” Steiner growled, “Queege’s been bustin’ her tail ever since she came to work for us. Stretch out on the rack over there, Queege, and get some shut-eye, you’ll feel better in—”

Puella began to cry even harder, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed. “I-I don’t know why—” She made an effort to control herself. “Sure,” she gasped. “I’ll lie down for a while. Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

Colonel Raggel helped her to a vacant bunk. “Look, Sergeant, you’ve been through a lot,” he said. “Get it all out now. We’re gonna have some hard times down on Haulover and I’m going to need you by my side, the same old, sturdy workhorse Top and I have come to rely on. Even the bravest men break down, but they get a grip and bounce back. You can do it. Rest for a while and you’ll be as good as new.” But he knew what her problem was. Everyone in the battalion did; he just didn’t know what had brought on the crying jag at that moment.

Puella nodded her thanks and climbed into the bunk. “Sir? That music? What is it?” she asked as she lay back.

“Uh? Oh, Purcell, Henry Purcell, a very, very, old opera called
Dido and Aeneas.
Do you know the story? I’ll tell you all about it sometime. Right now, you get some rest, Sergeant.” He was surprised Queege had paid any attention to the music. She never had before when he played the baroque pieces he liked.

“N-no, sir. Just curious. I’ll be better for a while, I promise.” She turned her face to the bulkhead and closed her eyes. The music had set her off. Normally she paid no attention to the colonel’s music. His taste did not match hers. She didn’t care a fig about this “Deedo Anneus” or the guy who’d written the opera about him. But that one time, for some reason she heard the lyrics so clearly and powerfully they registered with her like a pulse from an M3 Bowman antiaircraft gun. What they said was something men in uniform have known from time immemorial:

“Come away, fellow sailors, your anchors be weighing.

Time and tide will admit no delaying.

Take a boozy short leave of your nymphs on the shore,

And silence their mourning

With vows of returning

But never intending to visit them more.

No never…”

And it was at that point, “never,” that she broke down because she knew that once she left the battalion she’d never see Billy Oakley again. As soon as she was off duty today she’d go find him.

“I said, ‘We’re here to enforce the law,’ gentlemen!” Colonel Raggel strode to the head of the conference table. “General Carano gave you copies of the martial law decree. I suggest you pop them into your readers and see just what ‘martial law’ means. Note that President Chang-Sturdevant has declared the world of Haulover to be in a state of emergency that requires imposition of military law to ensure the safety of our military forces and the civilian population. That is my job, gentlemen. I am, in effect,
now
the mayor of Sky City; General Carano is the supreme authority on this world. General Aguinaldo, when he lands the XXX Corps, will assume that authority in his turn.”

“Goddammit!” Smelt Miner shouted. “The fucking courts here are still in session! The civil authority can still act! The laws are running their free course on Haulover! You can’t impose—”