Steel Gauntlet (40 page)

“We blow the lid on the shaft first, make ‘em think we’re coming in that way, then go in here, and we’ll catch any reaction force by surprise!” Brigadier Sturgeon said. “Mike Company will be the diversionary force and Lima will go in here.”

“You’ll have to go with us, Hard Rocks,” Captain Conorado said.

Viola shrugged. “In all the years I been freelance prospecting up there, the big companies never bothered me much, but you know, I never liked any of ‘em, and this bastard, St. Cyr, he’s ruined everything here for everybody. If you boys can nail him, count me in.” Bass clapped Viola on the shoulder. “I’ll be right there beside you, Hard Rocks,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s the only thing that worries me,” Viola laughed.

“Mr. Poste, kindly get your personal things, you’re coming with us,” the brigadier said.

“But closing time isn’t until—”

Bass gently lifted the librarian out of his seat and pushed him toward the door.

“You are going to be a guest of Fleet Admiral Wimbush until this operation is over, Mr. Poste. We can’t chance it that somebody might want to find out what we’ve been doing in here all afternoon.”

“Oh,” Poste said in a small voice as Bass escorted him outside. “Brigadier, how are the accommodations on the admiral’s flagship?”

“The finest, Mr. Poste. The food is excellent.”

Captain Conorado gently nudged the brigadier and whispered, “Now, sir, that was really unkind.”
CHAPTER 31

After the first hour in their cell, Dean and MacIlargie discovered and disabled the surveillance device that allowed St. Cyr’s jailers to monitor them. No one seemed to care, because it was never fixed.

Subsequently, the door would slide open at intervals and food and drink would be unceremoniously thrust inside. They searched their cell carefully but found nothing of interest and no other way out except through the metal sliding door, which was locked from the outside and apparently impossible to open from the inside.

Inside one of the empty lockers, peeling from the steel, they found a pinup, a computer-generated holo hardcopy of a young woman dressed in a hundred-year-old style smiling happily at the two Marines, now prisoners in her husband’s—boyfriend’s? lover’s?—former living quarters.

The hours passed slowly. The two whiled away the time napping and reminiscing about home and comrades and the adventures they’d had in the Corps.

“Why did you join up?” Dean asked MacIlargie at last, getting around to the inevitable question that came up in every extended conversation Marines have ever had among themselves.

“I was stupid, loved guns, and needed the money,” MacIlargie said quickly, giving the stock reply. “I suppose for the same reasons everybody does,” he went on after a few moments. “I wasn’t going anywhere back home. Couldn’t see spending the rest of my life working to support a family, like my dad and mom did. Wasn’t connected well enough to get into the Merchant Marine, and shit, being a colonist somewhere’s no way to see the universe either. So I went down to the recruiter’s office one day, saw the snazzy dress reds those guys were wearing, and here I am. How about you?” Dean told him about his father’s army experiences and the desire he’d always had to be a military man too. He also described some of his own experience at the recruiting office, and they both laughed. “What about your family?” he asked MacIlargie.

MacIlargie shrugged. “You know,” he answered vaguely. Dean understood he didn’t want to talk about his family. “I had a girl...” Dean waited for him to continue. “I was pretty serious about her,” MacIlargie went on. He stood up, walked over to the old locker and stood there looking pensively at the faded pinup. Then he punched the metal door—hard. “We would of been married,” he said, his voice tense with tightly controlled emotion. Dean did not ask him why he didn’t marry, or anything else about the girl. MacIlargie returned to his bunk and sat down again. The reminiscences were over for a while.

The subject of MacIlargie’s aborted marriage made Dean think of Hway, back on Wanderjahr. He wondered what she was doing, whether she ever thought of him. Would they ever see each other again?

Thinking of her aroused him physically. He forced himself to control the emotion. He had far more important things to worry about, like survival. Yet try as hard as he could, it was a long time before the unbidden image of the young woman so far away in time and space faded at last from behind his eyelids.

The hours continued to pass slowly for the two Marines. No one had bothered them, questioned them, or even looked in on them, except at meal times. Both understood it was the Ambassador whom St. Cyr wanted, and that they were just pawns in his plan.

They had just finished breakfast on the morning of what they judged to be their third day in captivity when MacIlargie remarked, as he had after every previous meal they’d been served, “That was really lousy chow, but good, but good! I didn’t realize how hungry I was.” Dean nodded, mopping up the last traces of a glutinous gravy substance with a stale chunk of bread.

MacIlargie farted. “You bastard!” Dean shouted.

“So long’s you can still do that, Deano, yer still alive ’n’ kickin’,” MacIlargie responded, unconcerned.

“You know, Mac,” Dean said after the air had cleared, “it’s too bad about those reds the admiral had made for us.” The dress red uniforms they’d been wearing at the reception were specially tailored for them since they didn’t have their own uniforms along on this operation. Now those new reds were soiled and torn. Somewhere, Dean had lost the marksmanship badge and campaign medals someone had found for him to wear. “I wonder if the Corps will replace these uniforms free of charge.”

“Sure,” MacIlargie said, masticating a piece of stringy meatlike substance. “Fair wear and tear, combat loss, somethin’ like that. Long as we don’t tell them they weren’t our issue reds.”

“What a hell of a way to end this miserable deployment,” Dean said with sudden bitterness. He threw his metal plate into a corner and cursed violently. “We survived all that fighting, only to be...” He gestured helplessly. “And here I am, worrying about new uniforms, and all those guys—all those Marines...” He made another helpless gesture.

“Easy, Deano. You can’t bring any of ‘em back. We gotta worry about the here and now. I figure from the time we were knocked out to now, we’ve been in captivity three days. That means the guys are due to get us out of here any minute now.” It was a commonly accepted myth that no captured Marine ever remained a prisoner for more than seventy-two hours.

“Mac, we’re stuck down here. It was the Ambassador they wanted in the first place, not us. Soon as they don’t need us anymore, pfffttt.” He drew a finger across his throat. “Nobody’s gonna—” From far above them there came a distant cra-a-a-ak, and then a muffled rumble.

Dean paused and glanced apprehensively at the ceiling. “Another cave-in?” They had heard several deep rumblings before and assumed they came from old tunnels collapsing far below.

MacIlargie held up his hand. “Listen.”

“I don’t hear—”

“Listen!” he shouted, then more quietly, “Listen.” The rumbling seemed to go on for a long time, getting louder as every second passed. “It’s them! It’s them!” MacIlargie shouted. The rumbling ended in a tremendous crash, as if a heavy object had just fallen a long way, and the rock underneath them shook with the impact. Outside they could hear shouting and men running. “Gimme a hand!” MacIlargie shouted as he began tearing the mattress off his cot. The cot was constructed of tubular pieces of metal, and together they pried off two metal legs. He hefted one experimentally, “Oughta do,” he said, smacking it into the palm of his hand.

“Hold it behind your right leg,” Dean said. MacIlargie looked questioningly at him. “It’s how the cops do it. On Wanderjahr,” he added. “Bring it around in an arc, real quick,” he said. MacIlargie shrugged and shifted the heavy metal tube to a position behind his right leg.

Someone outside fumbled with the lock. MacIlargie braced himself and stood facing the opening panel, feigning a look of surprise on his face. In his left hand he held the tin plate his breakfast had been served on, as if finishing the morsels still clinging there. Dean flattened himself to one side of the panel, his tube raised over his head.

The panel slid open and one of the guards stepped in. All he saw at first was MacIlargie, staring at him in surprise from the middle of the room.

MacIlargie brought the tube down in a huge overhand arc squarely on the top of the man’s head. It hit a few inches behind the tip, somewhat dissipating the force of the blow, but with a solid bonk. Stunned, the man went to his knees. Mac could feel the blow all the way down his arm. On the way down the guard grabbed MacIlargie by the legs. MacIlargie staggered backward to get away from him and gain room to swing the tube again. The man held on in a daze, so, holding the tube in both hands, MacIlargie brought one end straight down on the top of the guard’s head with all his strength.

The guard’s partner jumped through the door, to the rescue, at the same time Dean’s tube caught him on the bridge of his nose with a sharp crack. Blood flew everywhere. Dean grabbed the man with his left arm and jerked him inside. The other guard smashed into his partner, and under his added weight the two of them toppled onto the floor with MacIlargie on the bottom. Dean slid the door closed and attacked the two guards with his bloody metal pipe, holding it in both hands and raining blows with all his strength onto their heads and necks.

When the guards ceased moving, Dean stood there, breathing heavily, his face and uniform flecked with blood. In the corridor outside, pandemonium reigned as groups of men pounded by and officers shouted orders, but nobody bothered to look into their room.

“Get them off me,” MacIlargie mumbled from beneath the inert bodies. Dean rolled the two men aside and held out his hand to MacIlargie. “Get their weapons,” MacIlargie said as he got to his feet. Much to their disappointment, the Marines found the guards unarmed. “Ah, smart fuckers, of course they wouldn’t come in here with weapons on them,” MacIlargie muttered.

“Let’s change clothes with them,” Dean whispered, still out of breath from the adrenaline rush, “and find out where the others are.”

“Good idea. Use the sheets to wipe the blood off your face and hands, Deano. You look like a butcher.”

Quickly, they shed the remnants of their dress reds and started putting on the guards’ battle-dress uniforms. One leg inside a pair of trousers MacIlargie paused. “Hey, Deano, you know, these poor bastards made one big mistake.”

“What was that?”

“They thought they could handle Marines one-on-one.”

“My dear Clouse,” St. Cyr said, smiling and rising from behind his desk. “What is the word from the Confederation?”

“They accept your terms, sir,” Stauffer answered. He held out the microdiskette Admiral Wimbush had given him. From far above them came a sharp crack followed by a rumbling noise.

“Ah,” St. Cyr said, “right on time, my dear boy. Yes.” He smiled again and drew a pistol. “I know you betrayed me, Clouse. I knew you would. Fortunately, I prepared an alternate plan.”

“NO!”

A huge crash thundered through the complex, shaking the rock underneath them. It was the remnant of the rock outcropping that hid the escape shaft falling onto the launch pad only 150 meters away.

“Ah, yes, you did, my dear boy, you did. You were going to say it was all a ruse to get them to leave you alone, weren’t you?” He shook his head sadly. “Maybe it was, Clouse,” he said reasonably, “but alas, I cannot take that chance. Time to go now.” He raised a blaster in his right hand. Without hesitation he shot a bolt into Clouse Stauffer’s chest. Stauffer staggered back into a chair and fell heavily to the floor, his torso a steaming mass of liquefied flesh and organs. St. Cyr came around the desk and stared down at his dying chief of staff. “We came a long way together, my boy, but I always knew it would end this way.”

Stauffer felt no pain, just a massive lethargy. The light in the room about him was slowly fading. He thought, If this is death, it’s not so bad after all. From far away he could hear St. Cyr saying something.

Who cares what that bastard has to say anymore? I should have drawn and fired first. Ah, well, at least the Marines are here, he thought just before losing consciousness.

“Clouse,” St. Cyr was saying, “you may be wondering why I didn’t flee as soon as I knew you were going to betray me.” He kicked Stauffer’s inert body. Getting no response, he shrugged. “Very well, die then, if that’s what you want to do.” He turned to the Woo crouching in the corner and shook his finger at it. “It’s not my style to go slinking off like a Woo, Woo. Life’s only worth living if you run just ahead of the wave.”

The Woo moaned in fear and scuttled toward the door. St. Cyr kicked at it absently. His foot connected solidly with the creature’s midsection, sending it tumbling into the wall, a mass of jiggling appendages.

The sergeant of the guard stuck his head in the door. “Sir, a rescue party is attempting to come down the launch shaft. A reaction force is on the way to stop them. What shall I do with the prisoners?” He glanced briefly at Clouse Stauffer’s body on the floor and decided not to get curious.

“Nothing, Sergeant. I shall take care of the woman. Give me the pass card to her cell. Kill the two enlisted men. Delay the rescue party as long as you can and then join me in Section Que Slant.” Section Q\ led into a series of tunnels equipped with escape vehicles which his men had been told they could take to the surface in an emergency. None of the men now with him had been involved in renovating the old mines. If any of them survived the first engagement with the rescuers and did manage to flee into Section Q\ they would all perish, the survivors and their pursuers, because the escape tunnels were mined.

St. Cyr had his own way out, known only to him. The 36 V on its launch pad was only a diversion.

“Now for my hole card,” St. Cyr said to the clinging Woo.

As soon as St. Cyr departed, the Woo painfully got to its legs and limped toward the door. It paused by Stauffer’s body, examining it briefly and moaning sadly to itself, then followed St. Cyr out the door and down the corridor.