Back From the Dead Page 30

  Harbin and Sabot pull their heads down and look at each other. Both are dirty and ragged, and Harbin has blood running down his cheek. Sabot motions to it. Harbin touches his cheek with his finger, looks at the blood on his hand. “Wife’s going to give me an earful about that,” he says casually, as if commenting about getting home late after one too many drinks with the guys. Sabot shakes his head in amazement and grins as his own fears settle down.

  Spurts of dirt dance on the top of the gun pit. Harbin holds up a small periscope and scans the valley as angry bullets buzz overhead. The hillside below is crawling with scores of soldiers working their way up the slope, a few firing while others sprint from cover to cover. Harbin provides a running commentary as he scans the wreckage.

  “Okay, SAMs down. Very well done, Sabot, almost every round square on the road. No vehicles moving, most are burning. Consider yourself an honest-to-God soldier. Now comes the tricky part. Get ready on clacker number one. The leftmost one.” He pans the periscope back and forth. The slope near the road is covered with troops headed their way. “Get ready. Safety OFF.”

  “Safety off.”

  “Annnnd… FIRE!”

  Sabot hits the clacker. A whole line of claymore-type mines go off, and the periscope view is filled with a roiling cloud of dust and debris. All the soldiers in view hit the ground, some diving for cover, some pirouetting into a ragged heap, dead or dying from the blast and steel balls. Harbin shifts left, right, back again. No soldiers standing. Very little firing, but lots of rolling echoes and dust. They hear inarticulate yelling, then something that sounds like commands. Harbin looks to the middle, spotting an enemy fire team advancing again.

  “Get ready on number three, Sabot.”

  “Three. Got it. Safety OFF. Ready.”

  “Steady, steady. Safe that. Ready number four.”

  “Safe three. Safe. Got four. Safety OFF. Four ready.”

  More soldiers stand and join the run uphill, turning it into a human wave, shouting, yelling, firing blindly on full-auto. The hissing sound of supersonic bullets passing nearby fills the air over the mortar pit.

  “FIRE!”

  Another eruption of dust and debris, and more soldiers go down. The number of bullets buzzing overhead falls precipitously. Aside from screams of pain, small explosions of ammo burning in fires, and the crackle of flames, relative quiet falls as dark, acrid smoke fills the valley.

  Sabot hunkers down while Harbin continues scanning with his little periscope. “Do we blow the rest and fall back?”

  “Not quite yet. This is the delicate part. If we blow them when we don’t have to, any decent leader will know that we are trying to cover a retreat and he’ll rally for a fast pursuit to try to catch us in the open. Besides, they’re all behind cover, so we wouldn’t hit anyone. If they think we can do this all day they demoralize and dig in or fall back. So we wait for them to get closer, then blow another one, then again. We fall back the instant we blow one to break up a charge or too much incoming fire and there’s no more of them. Too quiet, now. Let’s see if we can piss them off.”

  Harbin cautiously raises his head over the edge of the pit, rifle ready, eye to the scope. He aims carefully and squeezes off a shot. He’s rewarded by a scream. “Foot sticking out.”

  He shifts his aim and fires again. Another scream and a string of incoherent cursing. Another shot, nothing. There is an odd SPANG-WZZZZZ, and Harbin jerks his head down. There is a rough crease through one side of his helmet, a furrow plowed by a bullet. He stretches his neck this way and that to test function and winces a bit. “Yup. Pissed off again.”

  “You want to piss them off!?”

  Harbin nods slowly. “So they react. Don’t think straight. Give them time to think and plan, we’re screwed. How about tossing a grenade as far down the hill as you can, see what they do?” Sabot pulls a small round grenade from his gear, and looks at it. Harbin reaches over, turns it around so the spoon is against Sabot’s palm, and places Sabot’s other hand on the ring. “Sorry. We usually try to train before we use them for real. Your hand will hold the spoon until you throw. Pull the pin, lob it hard, stay down, cover your ears. Easy.” Harbin winks, then picks up a grenade for himself. “Watch.”

  He places its spoon against his palm, pulls the pin, and just holds it. Nothing happens, but Sabot looks nervous. Harbin coils his body and bends his arm, unwinds and flings it hard downhill, then ducks lower. “One, two, three, fou–“

  The boom echoes across the valley, then the sound of distant gunfire and more explosions roll in on the breeze. Yelling and a little screaming and crying. “Sounds like this isn’t the only party on the block,” Sabot says.

  Harbin nods and points a different direction than he threw. “Like I said, plenty of targets to go around.”

  Sabot coils his body, pulls the pin, unwinds and heaves it. Just as his hand is releasing, a lucky bullet rips through his arm, and his follow through brings it down to his chest, where he looks at it dumbly for a moment. Harbin grabs a pressure bandage from a ready supply, tears it open with a well-practiced pull. Another explosion rocks the valley when the grenade goes off.

  Sabot stares up into the sky, jaw clenched, as Harbin works. He binds the wound with practiced precision and speed while speaking calmly but rapidly.

  “Breathe. I’ve got it. No problem. Combat pay and a genuine field injury medal, your lucky day. War stories and scars to prove it. No bone, so you’ll be doing push-ups again next week. In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth, hold. Doing good. Painkillers in the bandage will take a minute to take effect. Just a flesh wound, no problem. Trigger finger still work? Might need it soon.”

  Finished wrapping the wound, Harbin picks up his periscope again and starts scanning the valley. It’s quieter, but the occasional explosion or burst of gunfire drifts in from the distance. “Take a sip of water, just sit a minute. Looks quiet, and we still have three more lines of mines and plenty of ammo. We’ll be fine.” The expression on his face is not quite as convincing.

  “Waiting and not knowing is always the hardest part,” Lag says. He’s the only one on Tajemnica’s bridge who doesn’t look tense and worried. He looks patient. “Lots of smoke that way, so our suspicions were right. But until we hear from them, we can’t know that way is clear, only that they brought down their own special slice of hell on the guys trying to shoot us down.”

  Allonia is on the verge of tears. “But it’s been hours!”

  “And it may be hours more,” Lag says, gently.

  “We haven’t picked up much of anything, ours or theirs,” Quiritis says. “I’d take that as a good sign. They didn’t call for help.”

  “They wouldn’t,” Cooper says tactlessly. “They are the help.”

  Allonia clenches her jaw to stifle a cry, looking determined. “One more load, low and fast over that area. They’d not expect us to head for the smoke, and we can see what’s what. Maybe they got their radios damaged, and they can signal us visually.” Her voice lowers, taking on a hard edge. “When we get back, I’m going to pay Seymore a visit, no matter what we see on the ground.”

  Visit

  Tajemnica flies low, hugging the treetops, her aft ramp partially lowered. Allonia, Lag, and two recruits stand near enough to the edge to have a good view looking out as they streak over the hills and woods. The ground below becomes less distinct as swirls of smoke start to appear, then grow denser. The landscape below them changes from idyllic sparse woodland to a swath of flaming carnage and roaring forest fire. The road snakes out in either direction with the scene of a devastating battle. Scores of burning vehicles and small craters. Bodies scattered all over. Not a single undamaged truck. The sound of gunfire hits their ears, and a truck erupts in a fireball as they pass.

  Lag whistles, softly, features set. Allonia looks shocked, the recruits somber. “More like a battalion than a platoon. Hit hard.” Lag says. “Deliver this load, then we should make that quick stop you wanted.”

 
Lag calls Kat from his cabin. “At least a light battalion,” he says.

  Her eyes widen in surprise. “A battalion? Jesus!”

  “From what we could see, all the vehicles got hit. We flew right over, no hint of radar or tracking. Fighting was still active, and hundreds of guys moving around with a forest fire burning, so no way to sort them out at speed. There may still be some operative stuff there. See what you can find out about other routes being cleared. No doubt OpFor got hurt bad, but…” He shakes his head. The team they dropped faces long odds.

  “On it,” she says, then signs off.

  Harbin, Kaushik, Kaminski, and the recruits lie in a shallow depression that they’ve hastily dug into a slightly better fighting position. Blue wood smoke, black plastic smoke, and white powder smoke all swirl by, intermingling on the eddying wind. The sounds of sporadic gunfire and a forest fire crackle in the background. They are all bloodied and bandaged, with damaged body armor. A couple of bayonets show signs of recent use. They have precious few supplies in the hole with them.

  Around the rim Kaushik and the recruits are aiming and firing slowly and carefully, as best they can. Buck lies in a bloody mess next to Kaushik, a magazine in his one good hand, ready to pass it when Kaushik needs it. Only two full magazines remain.

  Harbin, dressing a bloody wound on Kaminski’s side, says dryly, “You’ll last a while. Just another flesh wound. Can you shoot?”

  Kaminski winces and clenches his teeth. “Got no choice.”

  “You know what I think?” Harbin asks. Kaminski looks at him grimly. “She’s going to give you hell for getting shot like that.” Kaminski grins weakly in spite of the pain and chuckles halfheartedly. He hefts his rifle gingerly and rolls onto his good side, moving slowly back up into the fight.

  The four-story building sits on the outskirts of town, at the edge between the industrial district and more upscale urban buildings. Three small fliers are parked to the side of the rooftop landing pad. Tajemnica glides in smoothly, landing struts retracted and ramp down, and hovers barely above the roof, near the door where a husky guard in a dark suit and sunglasses stands with a snarl on his face.

  “Get that huge-ass thing out of here!” the guard yells in his best I’m in charge voice.

  Allonia and Helton hop off the ramp in no mood to be argued with. Allonia wears full high-tech synthetic combat armor, a pistol holstered at her side on a belt laden with magazines. Helton wears body armor, a suppressed 6.5mm rifle slung across his chest, and a few spare magazines tucked into pockets. Lag stands on the ramp with a similar rifle held casually under his arm, looking at the guard with a grim smile and hard eyes.

  “Open the door,” Helton orders. “We have an appointment with Seymore.”

  “And you are not going to announce it,” Allonia says, her hand on her sidearm.

  The guard reassesses the situation and his face changes from angry and demanding to professionally blank. He opens the door and stands aside, stance wide, hands clasped in front of himself, studiously ignoring Lag.

  In the outer office reception area sits a cute young lady behind a desk, as much decorative as functional. Three muscular, tough-looking men, fashionably dressed, lounge around the room. One is cleaning his fingernails with a vicious-looking blade. The door flies open violently. Allonia and Helton storm in. Seymore’s hired muscles are good, reacting instantly, reaching to draw weapons.

  Knife Guy throws his blade expertly and fast, but Allonia and Helton are prepared. Allonia dodges and draws her pistol; the knife barely grazes her temple and sticks in the wall. She has her pistol in the second man’s face while he’s still mid-draw. Helton levels his rifle at the third thug. Knife Guy is empty-handed, and he freezes while starting to reach for another blade, realizing he’s not going to be fast enough.

  “Nobody moves, no one dies,” Helton says.

  Allonia doesn't glance at the receptionist, but keeps her eyes on the men she’s covering with her pistol.

  “Hit the switch and open the door for us. Now.”

  The receptionist reaches for a button.

  “NO,” Helton barks. “The button that opens the door. Anything else happens,” he shifts his aim to her, “you die first. Then these three. Then Seymore.”

  The receptionist pauses, her eyes locked on to the muzzle of the gun. She moves her hand in a different direction, presses the right button, and the door clicks open. Helton swings his rifle back to cover the guards. Allonia heads for Seymore’s office door, eyes and gun still on the guards. She grabs the knob, shoves it open, and strides in.

  Seymore is at his desk, leaned back, feet up. Seeless sits in a corner. Seymore startles and stands and yells, “I SAID NO VIS–” then freezes when he sees Allonia. Seeless stands up and starts to reach for a gun in a shoulder holster.

  “SIT!” Allonia shouts, pointing her pistol at Seeless while glaring at Seymore. They both freeze a moment, then sit.

  “I don’t have all the details, but I know you are involved in the treason of trying to shoot Tajemnica down using Kiv SAMs. If the Plataeans we dropped to stop them don’t come back alive, neither do you. If I find out they died and you had direct involvement, you better kill yourself, because when I get to you, your demise will be downright Old Testament. I know you and Darch have been talking to the Kiv, and it’s only a matter of time before we know exactly who said what. Call anyone you know who even might be able to call them off. Your life and Darch’s depend on the survival of those three men. And if you try to stop us from leaving, there’s twenty thousand tons of metal hovering over your building awaiting our safe return.” She turns to Seeless. “And believe me, after what you did to her parents, Quiri would be happy to set Taj down right here, right now, if we don’t walk out.”

  Seeless blanches and a stain blooms on the front of his pants. Allonia holsters her pistol, turns, and strides out, leaving Seymore gasping in rage and fear. The office is silent except for the sounds of Allonia and Helton’s departure.

  The moment the outside door closes, the three guards rush in to check on Seymore, then rush back out as he chases them out of his office, raging, yelling almost incoherently. “WHAT THE HELL DO I PAY YOU ASSHOLES FOR YOU MORONIC ROID-RIVEN PATHETIC EXCUSES FOR DOORMEN! GOODFUCKINGGOD YOU’RE USELESS! YOU–“

  He stops mid sentence, seeing the thrown knife in the wall. He walks closer to examine it, and he sees the bit of blood on the knife’s edge.

  Tajemnica still hovers above the building. Lag and the guard on the roof wait motionlessly, facing each other, Lag’s rifle still held in a seemingly casual way. The door slides open, Helton and Allonia jog out and hop aboard Tajemnica’s ramp, and the ship lifts away. Lag notices the modest trickle of blood on Allonia’s temple and looks a question at her.

  “It’s nothing. Guy with a knife,” she says. “Seymore now has clarity. He’ll be calling everyone he ever talked to–” She freezes mid step, momentarily perplexed, then a look of suspicion flashes onto her face. “Kat. Why did Kat talk to Darch or Seymore?” Helton and Lag glance at each other, then back to her. “Taj said she was picking up a useful chain of communication between them. She’s a spy!”

  Lag’s face goes blank. “Sort of. Double agent, really.” Helton and Allonia both look at him in surprise. “I’ll fill you in after we get that cut taken care of.”

  Allonia sits on the edge of an exam table in the sick bay while Helton cleans and bandages her. Lag leans against another table.

  “She’s been feeding a few of the local power brokers information that is correct, but of more use to us to know they know it than it is to them. They are willing to pay a premium price to gain supposedly inside data, and Kat has a rare talent for pumping them for more than she hands out. When I realized we might be getting set up, our best intel was that at most an air defense company was going to be used, more likely a platoon-level detachment. Everything else was apparently accounted for. Darch must have pulled in some huge favors — and really hate you — to commit treason on t
hat level, unless there is something else big going on we don’t know about. Four ManPADS teams at the RC, a whole battalion in the zone? That’s a serious commitment.”

  “So she told them she’d tell us it was clear,” Helton says, “and we’d set up the ambush ahead of time?”

  “Exactly. A few launchers and a score of men would have been a piece of cake. An entire battalion… Not sure what we’d have done if we’d known that. That’s a steep order on short notice with so few men, even for the First Sergeant. If they did totally reduce it, that’s going to be a huge bonus for the Company.”

  Allonia is aghast. “How can you talk about profits when Dorek and the others might be dead or dying?”

  Lag looks apologetically at Allonia. “Sometimes, when the cause is just and the buyer poor, we fight for free. We can afford to do that because of money and experience gained working for richer clients. Fighting is never risk-free, but we don’t normally go into battle expecting to die.”

  “All those men, suffering and dying.” She shakes her head, prompting Helton to hold it steady. “War is messed up.”

  “Yes. It is,” Helton agrees softly.

  “Why? Why do they…?”

  “Because wars are started by people, and there are messed-up people in the universe,” Lag answers. “Sadly, they often seem to float to the top of the political cesspool. Ambitious people chase money and power, and the more they have the more corruptible they become.”

  “So why do you fight? You and Dorek seem nice enough.”

  “Thank you. Because not fighting back concedes victory to the worst bastards starting the wars. I raise the cost of fighting so they’d rather negotiate in good faith.”