The Tejano Conflict (15 page)

When that happened, the party would be over.

That's how she expected to go. On the battlefield, taken out by somebody better. There was always a chance of a stray shot, a bomb going off in the wrong place, a sniper so far away she couldn't see him, but mostly she figured it would come down to a younger, quicker, more accurate version of herself firing the bullet with her name on it. Not really realistic to believe that, but she'd kept that fantasy going for a while. It had a certain romantic charm.
Hey, fem, it's me, the younger version of you, come to take your place on the dance floor. Adiós, chica . . .

So what to do?

She could walk away. She had enough money to live for a couple of years, she could get security work, could teach shooting classes, like that, and get by.

She could upgrade. Formentara could speed her up 15 or 20 percent, and that would put her into the superfast category, with superior skills that would give her another ten or twelve years better than she was now.

It was tempting.

Or she could just go on like she was and meet her nemesis whenever he or she showed up. Kinda fatalistic, but she was a soldier, had been one her whole adult life, and that was part of the trip. Play with fire, get burned; play with knives, get cut; play with guns . . . ?

She grinned. Gramps would have a field day if he knew what she was thinking. He'd be on her like fleas on an orchard rat, he knew she was even a tiny bit worried about getting old and slow, all the shit she had given him. Karma was an absolute bitch.

Good thing he couldn't read her mind.

The rain came down, and she drifted into sleep.

– – – – – –

Wink watched the MedEvac hopper as its fans kicked up water from the soaked ground; the hopper's lights caught and danced crazily over the vibrating pools as the vehicle lifted. At least the rain was not as heavy as it had been; bigger craft were able to fly.

Inside the departing unit were four troopers from another unit who'd had a really bad night when the hurricane had swept their cart into a river, and the seals had failed. His work—and Formentara's since zhe had popped by for no particular reason—was to stabilize and transship the four to the CCU at the Main Base, where General Wood's medical team treated the really serious stuff. These four had drowned, mostly, and needed high-pressure hyperoxygenation, more specialized gear than Wink had, to make sure their brains came back online as they recovered.

The sound of the hopper faded. The rain came down, the wind blew.

Now he had an empty clinic. He went back inside.

Boredom headed his way; he could
feel
it approaching . . .

Ping ping PING Ping ping PING Ping ping PING—

So much for boredom.
Wink toggled his com.

“This is CFI medical, go.”

“Ah, this is Field Med Orton, Fifteenth, we have two troopers down with serious blast injuries, they need evac, our transport is busy, and you are the closet. Can you help us out?”

“Stet that. How bad?”

“Telemetry uploading.”

“Stand by.”

Wink waved up the telemetry read:

The stats crawled. Explosive concussive effects could be all over the map, but often, somebody standing too close to a bomb when it went off looked as if they had been swatted with a giant, spiked fist. The two injured troopers were hurt pretty bad, but their vitals seemed stable, at least for the moment.

Orton was one of the FMs for the scout team next door, not part of CFI.

“Got no transport vehicles near their location,” said Formentara, from behind him. “We're the closest facility,” zhe said, “and our transport won't be back for forty-five minutes, if that. We'll have to go collect them in the crawler.”

The doctor nodded. Only a couple of klicks, and mostly it looked like friendly territory, plus nobody was supposed to shoot at medical vehicles, which the crawler obviously was; it was plainly marked with standard Caduceus, the twin snakes twining around a winged staff, black on a bright yellow background, plus broadcasting the medical sig. Though that was kind of a running joke . . .

Corporate rules were much like the GU Army's when it came to medical vehicles and buildings—firing or bombing them was generally not allowed, as long as nobody in them was shooting at you. Not that troops always paid attention to that rule. All you needed to say was, “Hey, some asshole stuck a gun out the door and fired at me!” If there wasn't a Monitor standing right there, you could get away with it. Wink's vehicles had already taken fire several times during this war, and likely as not, their side had sent a few potshots at Dycon's medical crawlers.

Play in a war zone, why, you might get killed. Imagine that.

Still, they could zip over and back, should be no problem . . .

Wink said, “Transport is on the way. ETA your location is”—he checked the PPS—“six minutes.”

“Stat that, Doc. We'll keep them alive until you get here.”

– – – – – –

The medical crawler rolled along, treads churning mud, the rain, which had eased up, came back harder, sheeting over the vehicle. Winds weren't so bad, but it was breezy enough.

Wink glanced at the readouts, looked through the armored plastic into the dark night, and back again, gaze constantly shifting.

“Nervous?” Formentara sat to the left at the weapons console. Mercenaries were covered by the medical-noncombatant conventions, but the crawler was armed because sometimes you had to shoot back or get killed. Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.

Wink shook his head. “Not me. It's just a walk in the park as far as I—
Fuck!
”

Bullets smacked into their windshield, ricocheted off, leaving metal-smudged dents on the stacked plastic.

“You know, they aren't supposed to do that,” he said, “and yet they keep doing it. Where are the Monitors when you need them? Hey, morons, we are
medical
here!”

Formentara's hands flew over the controls as zhe initiated a suppressing fire back along the trajectory the tactical computer identified. “That will give them something about which to think,” zhe said.

“‘About which to think'?”

“Grammar is important.”

“Really? Grammar? How far?”

“Almost there,” zhe said.

He gunned the engine, pushing their vehicle as fast as he dared on the muddy ground.

“Wink? Where the hell are you?”

“Medical evac, Colonel, and we are kind of busy here. Let me call you back.”

Formentara wiggled hir fingers: More chatter erupted from their gun.

Zhe said, “They eased off, but I expect they have help coming. Negative on local air support, still too much wind and rain for the drones, and we don't have a heavy aircraft close enough.”

“That's okay, we're here.” Wink tapped the brake, locked the crawler to a stop.

He hauled ass back to the bay doors and opened them.

Into his com: “Orton, your ride is here. And we probably have more enemy coming, so let's move it, hey? I'm bringing gurneys.”

“Affirmative, Doc. We are forty meters SSE of the crawler. I'll wave.”

Wink yanked two of the slide stretchers off a table, pulling them by a thick handle. The gyroscopically stabilized gurneys rolled on fat tires, or could be skidded on almost frictionless plastic runners that would glide over pretty much any kind of terrain, and were handy when there weren't two people to carry a stretcher. He and Orton could each pull one back, or he could chain them together and haul two, if necessary.

He jumped out into the stormy night and felt his boots sink into the damp earth. Rain poured down.

The heads-up display in his helmet pinged an ID sig. Right where Orton said they were.

A walk in the park. In a hurricane. Where the park muggers are armed with full-auto carbines looking to kill you.

He grinned.

– – – – – –

“He's in, lock it tight,” Wink said.

Orton, a gaunt man who seemed made of rawhide, said, “Strapping down.”

The medic finished securing the second of the two casualties and grabbed one of the handles.

Wink was about to do the same when he noticed that the soldier in the other gurney had gone a chalkier shade of pale.

Fuck . . .

“We got a new bleeder somewhere on this one,” Wink said. “I need to plug it.”

“Doctor, pradar says company is arriving,” said Formentara's voice in his head. “I suggest you move with more deliberate speed.”

“Yeah, yeah.”
Got to find that hole—

It was hard to tell in the darkness where the blood was the freshest, but it had to be on the left side, which had taken the main force of the explosion. He flared his helmet lamp to full. That would make a nice target in the rainy night . . .

He could feel time slipping away and the enemy getting closer.

Where are you, little bleeder? Come to Daddy . . .

There—!

He found the vein, managed to clamp it with a hemostat. It was meatball stuff, but it would have to do.

“Let's move!” He killed his helmet lamp. He yanked the gurney and started for the crawler.

A bullet passed through the space he'd just occupied, close enough he could hear it whistle, feel the air displacement.

Mother
fucker!

But his adrenaline surged:
Missed me, asshole!

More bullets whizzed past—

He yelled into the night: “Hey, dickhead, I'm a
doctor
! You aren't supposed to
shoot
at me! Don't piss me off!”

It was going to be iffy here . . .

And then he saw a blur to his right

Formentara?—what?

Zhe flashed past, firing a carbine full auto.
What in the hell—?

Ask about it
later
. Move!

He scrabbled through the downpour, slipping and sliding. Set what was probably a record for the loaded-gurney-in-a-hurricane sprint.

Even so, Orton was ahead of him.
Second place, damn!

The medic helped Wink slide the second gurney in, then raised his carbine to fire past the doctor into the dark—

Formentara arrived and leaped into the vehicle.

“Anytime, Doctor,” zhe said. “I believe we have overstayed our welcome.”

Orton slammed the doors as small-arms fire began to pepper them. None of it got past the crawler's armor—

Wink scrambled forward, Formentara already ahead of him.
That's twice I'm bringing up the rear.

And:
Zhe moved way too fast for normal.

He released the brake and squeezed the accelerator. The treads dug deep, and the crawler lurched forward.

Formentara raised the rotoscopic gun and ran it at 360 degrees, hosing a circular shower of jacketed death at a thousand rounds per minute, and let the pradar pick the targets.

There was rain, and then there was
rain
 . . .

Nothing big enough to damage the crawler hit it, and the small-arms fire eased off as they moved away.

“Orton?”

“We're stable back here.”

Wink looked at Formentara. “What the fuck was that? When did you get tuned up?”

“Recall the augmentor Gee, on Ananda, the one amping the Rel? Had not Kay been there, I would have been in considerable danger. I thought it might be useful to have some basics onboard. My autobots were sufficient for such simple installations.”

Simple. For hir, that word had a different meaning than it did for others.

“You shoot real good for a noncombatant.”

“You thought I was just another pretty face?”

He laughed. “Well . . . yeah.”

He was as high as a kite. Been a while since he'd had a rush this good.

“Careful, Wink,” zhe said. “You are very near to drooling.”

“Shows, huh?”

“Yes, it shows.”

“Maybe we shouldn't tell Jo,” he said. “She doesn't need to know.”

“Good luck with keeping her from finding out.”

Yeah. But—it was still worth it.

On the noncoded override opchan, a Monitor said: “Attention, Dycon force, you are firing upon a medical transport vehicle. Cease at once.”

“Oh, right,
now
they show up. More dickheads.”

Cutter slowed the ATV as he paid more attention to the heads-up display. The hurricane had played hell with the gear exactly as one would expect that it might.

Mobile Base Four, just outside the woods and designated by a small red number on his display, was still not responding.

He pinged the satellite relay for an update.

Nobody at MB4 answered. Not vox, not data, zip.

It might mean nothing; a shorted circuit from the rain or interference from the trees. Or it might mean something worse.

In an engagement of this limited size and scope, it was all about getting the most advantageous position with the fewest troops. It was like a game of chess: Unlike a war of attrition, they didn't need to kill or destroy most of the opposition, just get them into positions where they couldn't win. In this case, MB4 was a valuable pawn, in the right place to cover things. If somebody rolled on them, they should have had time to call for backup.

He checked the display again. It would be a short detour on his route to the FCV, and MB4 was in CFI's territory. In theory.

He glanced at the heads-up display. What was the point in being in command if he couldn't make a command decision?

Gramps was in the FCV: He called it in: “I'm swinging out to check on MB4.”

“You have people for that,” Gramps said.

“I'm here, they aren't. It's our property.”

“You aren't supposed to be out there. Jo will be pissed when she finds out.”

“She's got other things on her plate. I'm not going to tell her. Neither are you.”

“You right about that, I'm not saying shit. Be careful.”

– – – – – –

As Cutter neared MB4, he turned his displays down and his sensors up, scanning the area. He rolled forward, looking for his team, then he saw the crawler and the tow gun.

No signs of life.

He did a quick scan on the sensors and saw nothing.

He did a quick query on the opchan. No response.

He rolled to a stop. Climbed out, his carbine at the ready.

He stepped carefully across the muddy ground.

The trailer with 40mm recoilless behind the crawler looked okay until he got closer.

The targeting array had been destroyed—looked like fire from small arms.

On the other side of the trailer, he found the eight troops of MB4.

The stink of death filled the wet air.

He did a quick check of the corpses; all were CFI. If any of the enemy had been killed or wounded, they weren't here now.
Fuck!

They were mostly dead by gunfire. Two of them had no throats left, only gaping, ragged holes where a powerful claw had ripped voice boxes out. Lot of blood from that soaked into the ground around those bodies.

No boot prints leaving, unless they walked in the dead's tracks; be odd for an enemy patrol in the aftermath of a hurricane to be that careful.

He knew what it meant. The enemy Vastalimi had been here. Probably alone. He shot six, then took out the last two claw-to-hand. It would have been fast and hot, and it proved once again the worth of a Vastalimi warrior in battle.

“We have eight of ours KIA, these coordinates,” he said, “and evidence that the other side's Vastalimi did the deed.”

“Aw, hell,” Gramps said. “I don't suppose you can GPS him for a drone hit?”

“Not at this time. Can they even fly yet?”

“Marginally, maybe. I'd risk one in this case. I'll get somebody in here to collect the bodies and plug the hole.”

“Yeah. I'm on my way back.”

He stood, started toward his vehicle, then thought about it. If they sent their Vastalimi here to do this, they must have had a good reason. And if they planned to go through the hole the Vastalimi made, they'd have to do it fast—they'd know somebody would notice PDQ.

How long had it been? How much time left?

If the enemy punched through here, they could gain a superior position. He'd have to move assets around and reconfigure the lines, at the least.

Damn . . .

He ran back to the 40mm and took another look. Targeting computer was definitely dead, but—

He tabbed the main power and the drive motor hummed to life. He grabbed the paddles and tested the barrel. Moved fine, the touch sensors shifting the barrel okay. It was a little sluggish—the targeting array ran an algorithm that anticipated sensor input faster than human reflexes. He would have to eyeball it.

The ammunition-feed mechanism was okay—he cycled a few shells and heard them snap in and out of place.

Options were get the hell out now or try to plug the gap. He thought about the men lying dead next to the trailer and the others who might be killed.

Not really a choice.

He heard the faint sounds of an engine approaching.

He slid down behind the splash shields.

“Company,” he told Gramps. “Be good to get somebody here when you get around to it.”

– – – – – –

Gunny woke up a few seconds before the com lit with Gramps's incoming.

“Hey, Chocolatte, got a present for you. Have a look.”

“Not porn, is it?”

“Your kind, yes. Jo around?”

“Sleeping.”

“Good. Keep the sound turned down. I don't want her to see this.”

Gunny tapped a control and a video feed popped up on her heads-up display.

She saw a 40mm tow gun behind a crawler, a gunner in the hot seat.

As she watched, the gunner tracked the barrel of the cannon to his left and began firing.

She watched as targeting rounds stitched their way toward an incoming, lightly armored troop carrier. One of the enemy's.

She frowned. Why was the gunner missing? The gun's algorithm must be off—

Then rounds began to slap the enemy carrier
clunk-clunk-clunk!
and the EU slugs blew through the armor.

The target veered off course, but the gunner compensated, tracked it, nailing it over and over—

Like shooting fish in a barrel—

—the APC skidded to a halt on the soaked ground and rocked a little. Steam came from the ruined engine.

A few seconds passed.

No doors opened. Nobody got out.

Smoked 'em all?

She looked back over at the gunner and got it. The targeting array was wrecked. Guy had been shooting on manual.

That was more impressive. She took a closer look at the shooter.

“Hey. Is that—?”

“Yep, in the flesh. He went to check on MB4. Looks like the other side's Vastalimi paid a visit. Unit was dead when he got there.”

Motherfucker.
“All of them?”

“Yes. They opened a hole. He closed it. We have it beefed up again.”

She knew he was good, but it was one thing to point-shoot a handgun and another thing entirely to do it with a motorized cannon.

Or, apparently not . . .

She shook her head.

“Jo's going to be pissed.”

“She hasn't seen it yet—figured you'd enjoy it the most.”

“Yeah. Looks like he was a little off early on, but, all things considered, not bad.”

“‘Not bad'? You are a hard fem, Gunny. That was fucking great. I don't think Rags ever shot a 40mm on manual before. I couldn't have done that.”

“Yeah, me, neither. The son of a bitch.”

He laughed. “Don't say I never gave you anything. You gonna show it to Jo?”

“Not me. My momma didn't raise any stupid children. You do it.”

“When Hell freezes over.”