A fighting chance

1

PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

A pair of destroyer escorts popped out of hyperspace off O-Chi 4 where they were joined moments later by the combat supply ship Lictor. The vessel was nearly two miles long and carried a crew of more than a thousand. When fully loaded, the vessel could transport up to three million tons of cargo, including as many as eight disk-shaped TACBASEs. One such fortress was filled to capacity with the men, women, and cyborgs of Alpha Company, 2 ^ nd Battalion, 1 ^ st REC. It was about to drop into O-Chi 4’s atmosphere, and all of them were strapped in.

Major Antonio Santana was seated in the op center on the top deck of TACBASE-011767, where he could see the video that was being fed to them from the Lictor ’s bridge. He could see a large part of O-Chi 4, and the general impression was of a heavily forested planet, much of which was shrouded by clouds. Santana’s orders were to land, join forces with the local militia, and destroy a Ramanthian installation. That was how it was supposed to work. But such operations rarely went according to plan.

Santana’s thoughts were interrupted as the image of O-Chi 4 was replaced with a head shot of the Lictor ’s commanding officer. She had short gray hair, steely blue eyes, and high cheekbones. A retread most likely. One of thousands who had been brought out of retirement to battle the Ramanthians. She looked tired. “It’s been nice having you and your troops aboard, Major. I have no idea what you hope to accomplish down there but good luck. As you know, the bugs control about sixty percent of the surface and have for the last six months or so. A flight of CF-184 Daggers will keep the enemy fighters off your back. But once you drop through thirty thousand feet, they’ll break off and return to the ship. You’ll be on your own after that. Any questions?”

“No, ma’am,” Santana answered stoically. “Thanks for the lift.”

The navy officer smiled. “Anytime. Make sure your people are strapped in. It’ll be a rough ride.” And with that, the video monitors snapped to black, leaving the tech data to scroll.

Santana turned to his Executive Officer. Captain Eor Rona-Sa was a 250-pound Hudathan who had been allowed to join the Legion despite the fact that his race had attempted to annihilate the Confederacy in the past. But the Hudathans had been defeated. And having failed to take what they needed, the big aliens were forced to join the same alliance they had previously sought to destroy.

The decision to accept Hudathans into the Confederacy’s armed forces had been partly political but was a practical matter as well. The war with the Ramanthians wasn’t going well, and the Confederacy was in desperate need of soldiers. Especially good ones.

Rona-Sa had a large head, a wide froglike mouth, and the vestige of a dorsal fin that ran front to back along the top of his skull. And when Santana looked into Rona-Sa’s eyes, he could tell that his XO was way ahead of him. “Are the troops strapped in?”

“Yes, sir,” Rona-Sa rumbled. “I checked them personally.”

“And the cyborgs?”

“Secured, sir.”

“Good. Thank you. Now all we need is a nap.”

Sergeant Major Dice Dietrich was seated to Santana’s left. The comment might have been sufficient to elicit a chuckle from the hollow-cheeked noncom except that he was already asleep and snoring gently. An apparent lapse that would have earned him a tongue-lashing from another commanding officer. But Dietrich had served under Santana for many years and had certain privileges.

Behind them, and strapped to D-rings set into the deck, was a recon ball. Her name was Lieutenant Sally Ponco. Thanks to her special abilities, the cyborg could tap into the TACBASE’s circuitry and the Lictor ’s so long as the vessels were connected. “The bugs are coming up to play,” she said laconically. “And the Dags are engaging them. Hang on… We are twenty from launch and counting.”

The onboard computer began a countdown that could be heard in every compartment. And for reasons known only to the combat habitat’s manufacturer, the machine had a female voice. “Attention all personnel. TACBASE-11767 will launch in ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two…”

The last was followed by a violent jerk as the self-contained fortress fell free of the Lictor and the influence of the supply ship’s argrav generators. Santana felt his stomach flip-flop as the artificial gravity disappeared and his body rose. The six-point harness held him in place.

Then came a sudden jolt as the computer fired a combination of steering jets, and video blossomed on the monitors. The planet framed in the center monitor began to swell as the flying fortress entered the exosphere. After ten minutes of acceleration, the disembodied voice flooded the PA system again. “TACBASE-011767 is about to enter a planetary atmosphere. All personnel will remain in their seats with harnesses fastened until further notice.”

“Here it comes,” Ponco predicted. And she was correct. Shortly thereafter, the hull began to vibrate, then rattle. Finally, it shook like a thing possessed as the flying fortress slip-slid down through heavy cloud cover. The battering continued for what seemed like an eternity but was actually less than half an hour.

As Santana began to wonder if the trip would ever end, the disk-shaped hull steadied. Wisps of cloud blew away, and hundreds of square miles of verdant forest appeared on the monitors. The land was divided into asymmetric shapes by ribbons of blue that connected lakes with the sea. He could see that much. But the TACBASE was traveling too fast for him to discern very many details.

Santana gripped the armrests of his chair more tightly as a saw-toothed mountain range appeared in the distance, and the TACBASE flew straight toward it. The so-called drop box was equipped with steering jets and repellers. But it didn’t have engines-and it couldn’t climb. So, as the mountains rushed at them, Santana wondered if they were about to die before the mission really began. He could see gaps between the jagged peaks, but none was wide enough to accommodate the flying fortress. It was a struggle to maintain his outward composure as the final seconds of his life ticked by. He thought about Christine Vanderveen, wondered where she was, and how the news would affect her.

Then, without warning, the flying disk flipped over onto its side, slipped between two neighboring pinnacles of rock, and righted itself again. “Holy shit,” Dietrich said. “I hope this thing lands soon. I need some fresh underwear.”

“I think you’re going to get your wish,” Ponco observed, as foothills gave way to thick forest and the TACBASE continued to lose altitude. “But Baynor’s Bay wasn’t much before the war, and I doubt things have improved much.”

The flying fortress was only three hundred feet off the ground by then. Santana saw what might have been a plantation, a stretch of dirt road, and a distant hill. Within a matter of seconds, the disk passed to one side of the elevation and flew over a sprawl of one-, two-, and three-story buildings. Then the drop box flashed out over Baynor’s Bay before circling back for a landing. “TACBASE-011767 is taking fire,” the computer said emotionlessly, as the hull shuddered.

“Contact the Baynor’s Bay port authority,” Santana ordered. “Give them the recognition code and order them to cease fire. All personnel will prepare for a crash landing followed by surface combat.”

“That message was sent,” the computer responded, “and a confirmation was received. But TACBASE-011767 continues to take fire.”

The flying fortress shook violently as a barrage of cannon shells and missiles slammed into it. But the durasteel hull was built to take a lot of punishment and did. “I’m trying to contact the locals as well,” Ponco put in. “But no luck so far.”

“TACBASE-011767 is running low on fuel and will have to put down within three minutes and seventeen seconds,” the computer announced. “Please designate a landing zone.”

Santana swore and made use of the small joystick on his armrest to scan Baynor’s Bay. Then, based on what he could see, he chose what millions of military leaders had chosen before him. And that was the high ground. “Put us down on top of that hill.”

“I have a contact,” Ponco announced, as the fortress passed over the town and neared the hill. “Or contacts. It seems there are two militia groups on the ground. One is ordering the other to stop firing.”

A couple of homes could be seen on top of the hill, along with a small water tank and the remains of a com mast. All of the structures disappeared as the computer triggered a dozen drop tubes-and an equal number of specially designed “weed cutters” laid waste to the hilltop. “That ought to get their attention,” Dietrich said darkly.

Suddenly, the main monitor went to black as the TACBASE was consumed by a rising cloud of smoke. There was a thud as the fortress landed. The deck tilted to one side but came level again as hydraulically controlled supports probed the ground, found solid footing, and made the necessary adjustments. Moments later, the computer began to drone its way through a status report. “Sensors, on. Ground defense system, on. Com system, on…”

But Santana wasn’t listening. He hit the release on his harness and was up on his feet by the time Ponco spoke. “I have a link with a Colonel Antov, sir. He says he’s sorry about the mix-up, but says everything is under control now. You are to report to him by 1600 hours local. He will provide transportation.”

Santana made a face. “Tell him I’ll be there.” There were a lot of things about the mission to O-Chi 4 that he didn’t like. And reporting to a militia colonel was at the top of the list. He had even gone so far as to appeal that part of the assignment to General Mortimer Kobbi on Adobe, where the company had been assembled. The older officer had been sympathetic but firm. “I hear you. But we don’t have a battalion of regular troops to drop onto O-Chi 4. So you’re going to need the locals to get the job done. And don’t forget… They know the place a lot better than you ever will.

“Plus,” Kobbi continued, “judging from his record, Colonel Antov was a reasonably competent officer before he left the marines to take over the family plantation. So it isn’t as if you’ll be reporting to the local pub owner or something. Have another drink. It’ll make you feel better.”

But Santana didn’t feel better as he and his staff left the command deck and made their way down a flight of metal stairs to the lower level where the Trooper IIs and bio bods were assembled. The four quads were too large to fit inside the TACBASE and were slotted into recesses in the hull. There was some comfort in knowing that their weapons, plus those controlled by the drop box’s computer, would be more than sufficient to repel most ground attacks.

Two corridors divided the main deck into four sections. They ran quad to quad across the hull. That meant the bio bods and T-2s could access the huge cyborgs in a matter of seconds.

Alpha Company was led by Captain Jo Zarrella, a combat veteran whom Santana had been lucky to get. The unit consisted of two platoons, each led by a lieutenant and a staff sergeant. A typical platoon included eight bio bods, eight T-2s, and a quad. But such numbers were deceptive because the total firepower possessed by a single platoon of highly mobile legionnaires was equal to an entire company of 175 foot soldiers.

A noncom yelled, “Atten-hut!” as Santana appeared, and all of the bio bods and T-2s crashed to attention. Some were veterans, but all too many of the legionnaires were barely out of advanced infantry training and green as grass. That included some of the seven-and-a-half-foot-tall Trooper IIs. They had a vaguely humanoid appearance, but form follows function, and there was no mistaking their arm-mounted machine guns and laser cannons for anything other than what they were. Some of the T-2s were criminals who had chosen life in a brain box over death. Others were the victims of accidents or, having been “killed” in action, had seized the opportunity to live on as cyborgs. Santana took the opportunity to say a few words. “At ease. Welcome to O-Chi 4. How do you like it so far?”

That produced some grins and a guffaw or two. Santana nodded. “The good news is that we were able to put down safely. The bad news is that even our friends are shooting at us. Fortunately, the friendly-fire problem has been resolved. But the bugs are only 150 miles away. So stay sharp.

“As you know, we were sent here to take part in a joint operation with a local outfit called the O-Chi Rifles. I will learn more about them when I report to Colonel Antov at 1600 hours. During my absence, Captain Rona-Sa will be in command-and it’s my guess he’ll find ways to keep you occupied.”

Everyone knew Rona-Sa was a stickler for maintenance, so the last comment elicited outright laughter from everyone except the officer in question. He lacked both the inclination and the capacity to smile. Dietrich had served under Santana for a long time and knew the pep talk was over. “Ten-hut!”

The troops came to attention. “Dismissed.”

“Sir?” As the troops began to disperse, Santana turned to find that his clerk, an earnest youth named Corporal Colby, was waiting to speak with him.

“Yes?”

“There is a vehicle and three militiamen waiting outside, sir. They’re from Colonel Antov.”

“Or so they claim,” Ponco put in as she drifted to a halt. Her sphere-shaped war form was covered with a mottled forest green paint job and equipped with two skeletal tool arms plus a variety of weaponry. “For all we know, they’re part of the group that was shooting at us. I think you should ride in a quad, sir.”

“I hear you,” Santana acknowledged. “But how would that look? We wouldn’t want the locals to think we’re scared. I’ll ride Sergeant Joshi. That should strike the right balance.

“Corporal Colby, if you would be so kind as to fetch my body armor and weapons, I’d be grateful.”

Colby took off at a trot, and Santana turned to Rona-Sa. “You know what we came here to accomplish, Captain. If I fail to return, carry on. Is that clear?”

It was the type of order that any officer should understand, but because Rona-Sa was a Hudathan, Santana knew the command would be followed regardless of cost. Even if it meant every man, woman, and cyborg in the unit had to die. The XO nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Fifteen minutes later, Santana was high on Joshi’s back with his harness fastened. A hatch whirred open, a ramp slid down to meet the rubble below, and the Trooper II followed it down to the smoking ground below.

From his position above and behind Joshi’s head, Santana could see the sturdy-looking ground vehicle that had been sent to pick him up. It was a boxy affair that consisted of an enclosed engine, a passenger compartment protected by a roll cage, and huge tires, which kept the car high off the ground. All three occupants were male, armed, and dressed in standard-issue camos. And, as Joshi carried Santana over to the all-terrain vehicle (ATV), the locals looked wary. Chances were that they had seen pictures of T-2s but never been exposed to the real thing. And Joshi was intimidating. “Good afternoon,” Santana said politely. “I’m Major Santana.”

The man in the front passenger seat was wearing a civilian bush hat. He stood, and thanks to the jungle buggy’s ground clearance, rose to the same level as Santana. The militiaman had a blocky build, black hair, and brown skin. His manner was friendly but guarded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m Captain Motu Kimbo. The colonel sent me to collect you. I was going to offer you a ride-but it looks like you brought your own transportation.”

“You lead, and we’ll follow,” Santana replied. “Let’s meet on channel two.”

After a quick radio check, Kimbo’s driver started his engine, put the ATV in gear, and executed a tight turn. Joshi could run up to fifty miles per hour without difficulty, but as Santana eyed the slope ahead, it didn’t seem likely that the cyborg would need to go even half that fast. A two-lane heat-fused road switchbacked down toward a jumble of pastel-colored buildings below. Some of the structures were intact, but many showed signs of blast damage or sat next to rubble-strewn craters. It didn’t require a military genius to figure out that the bugs had been by more than once.

With nothing to do other than compensate for the back-and-forth motion of the ride, Santana took the opportunity to scan his surroundings. One of the first things he noticed was a twenty-foot-high fence that followed the curve of the bay and was made out of metal beams. They had been welded together into self-supporting X-shapes that were dug into the ground. The obstacles stood shoulder to shoulder as if to protect local residents from something big. Ramanthian tanks? Or native life-forms? Having read up on O-Chi 4, Santana knew that some of the local triturators stood around fifteen feet tall, weighed up to eight tons, and had nasty tempers. So they wouldn’t be welcome in town. Or anywhere else for that matter.

Another thing stood out as Joshi and Santana followed the ATV through town. That was the way Baynor’s Bay’s townspeople came out to greet them. And no wonder since most had been witness to the TACBASE’s rather noisy arrival, not to mention the landing on the hill.

But as the road curved and followed the beach toward the southwest, most of the gawkers waved cheerfully, and a few were armed with Confederate flags. So if these people were friendly-who had attempted to bring the TACBASE down? It was an interesting question but one that would have to wait.

The ATV slowed, passed between a couple of stone pillars, and entered a curved drive. It led to a sprawling one-story house. The home was not only larger than most of the places Santana had seen but was perched on the edge of the bay, with a glorious view of the water. As both vehicles came to a halt under a portico, two native O-Chies hurried out to meet them.

The locals were about five feet tall and looked like animated skeletons. Large light-gathering eyes were located on both sides of their oval heads. That meant they could look in two directions at once. A rather useful adaptation for sentients who had reason to fear large carnivores. And as Santana freed himself from the harness, he saw that the indigs had three chevron-shaped nostrils centered in the middle of their faces. Their slitlike mouths were very wide, and if they had teeth, there was no sign of them as the nearest O-Chi spoke. The native’s voice had a soft, raspy sound. “Welcome to Bay House. The colonel is waiting.”

Santana got the impression that Antov didn’t like to wait for things; he ordered Joshi to stand by and held up a pocket com for the T-2 to see. The cyborg’s armor was painted forest green dappled with random ribbons of yellow. Like most vets, rows of bug skulls had been stenciled onto his slablike chest. One for each confirmed kill.

The noncom nodded a huge head. His computer-generated voice sounded like a rock crusher in low gear. “Just say the word, sir, and I’ll join the party.”

Santana grinned at the thought. “Thank you, Sergeant. That’s very comforting.”

As Santana turned toward the front door and made his way toward Kimbo, he could see the militia officer’s frown. “You look troubled, Captain… Is something wrong?”

“No, sir… But I’m afraid I’ll have to ask that you leave your weapons here. They will be kept under lock and key. The armor is up to you.”

Santana wasn’t pleased, but he understood. Trust had to be earned. So he slid the carbine off his shoulder and gave both it and his pistol to Kimbo, who placed them in a cabinet. The clamshell-style armor made a thump as it hit the floor. His helmet went on top. “Okay, Captain… At least I got to keep my pants. Please lead the way.”

The house had white walls, gleaming hardwood floors, and was furnished with beautiful O-Chi-made rattan furniture. But what immediately drew Santana’s eyes were the hundreds of animal trophies, both large and small, that glared down at him from every angle. Some had fur, and others were covered with scales. And because none of the creatures were familiar to him, Santana assumed all of them were native to O-Chi 4.

But, as Santana discovered when he was shown into a cavernous living area, the heads in the hallway were nothing compared to the beast that eyed him from the far end of the room. The reptile was about eight feet tall and equipped with four muscular legs. Yellow eyes were set into a bony head. And there were lots of sharp-looking teeth inside a yawning mouth. A meat eater for sure.

“It’s a velocipod,” a male voice said. “I took it down with a. 50-caliber Hawking. Anything smaller just pisses them off. The range was about a hundred feet. Closer than I would like-but that’s how it is with velocipods. They’re damned fast, so you only have seconds in which to fire.”

When Santana turned in the direction of the voice, he saw that a pair of easy chairs was positioned in front of a large window looking out onto the bay. One of them was occupied by a middle-aged man dressed in civilian khakis. He had a receding hairline with a prow-shaped nose and appeared to be in good shape except for the leg propped up in front of him. It was encased in a cast that produced a thumping sound when struck with a swagger stick. “I was gored,” the man explained. “A stupid mistake. But when another member of my party missed his shot-I went into a thicket of brush to finish the tusker off. It damned near went the other way!”

The last was said with a smile and obvious amusement. “Please have a seat. I’m Colonel Antov. And I assume that you are Major Santana.”

Santana confirmed that he was and took the chair next to Antov’s. They were separated by a side table that held a lamp, the swagger stick, and a pair of binoculars. “Can I interest you in a cup of O-Chi caf?” Antov inquired. “We produce the best beans in the Confederacy. Or did back before the bugs landed.”

“I would love a cup of O-Chi caf,” Santana replied. “It’s difficult to get a decent cup of coffee anymore.”

“Heedu!” Antov said loudly. “Fetch the major a cup of caf.”

The servant had been so quiet, and his slightly shimmery skin had blended so well with the wood paneling, that Santana didn’t know the O-Chi was present until he spoke. “Yes, Colonel. Right away, sir.” Then he was gone.

“So,” Antov said. “We gave you something of a warm welcome didn’t we? I was sitting right here when your TACBASE passed over the bay. It was quite a sight. My people knew the score. But it appears that Major Temo forgot to tell her troops about your arrival, so they mistook the TACBASE for a Ramanthian ship and opened fire. It was a regrettable mistake but an understandable one. Air superiority shifts back and forth all the time. And when the bugs are on top, they love to shoot the place up.”

Santana’s eyebrows rose as Heedu returned with a tray. “Major Temo?”

“Major Temo was my XO,” Antov explained. “Back before Governor Hardy was killed. Then, based on a very fanciful interpretation of the law, she named herself to replace him. Here, take a look through these

… You can see the Temo family’s pharmaceutical plant on the north side of the bay. They make a number of drugs based on extracts from O-Chi plants. That’s how they make their money. Lots of it.”

Santana brought the military-style device up to his eyes as Heedu placed a steaming cup of caf on the table next to him. When he pressed the zoom button, the other side of the bay seemed to leap forward. He saw a businesslike dock, a jumble of low-lying buildings, and some higher ground beyond. “That’s where all of the AA fire was coming from,” Antov commented. “Back before she tried to supplant the planetary government, Temo was in command of the O-Chi Scouts. They’re good people and excellent soldiers.

“But most of the scouts are employed by Temo Pharmaceuticals. And the family continues to pay them even though they can’t ship any pharmaceuticals off-planet at the moment. That buys a lot of loyalty.”

“Maybe I should talk to her,” Santana said, as he put the glasses down.

“You’re welcome to try,” Antov replied, wryly. “But I don’t think you’ll get very far.”

“No? Why not?”

“You may have noticed that there was a group of houses on top of Signal Hill before you cleared it,” Antov replied. “The largest belonged to the Temo family.”

“Shit.”

“Exactly. But it gets worse. Major Temo’s grandmother was living there.”

Santana winced. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You had no way to know,” Antov said philosophically. “And you were under fire. Plus, that drop box must have been running low on fuel. How much burn time did you have left?”

“A little over two minutes.”

“There you have it,” Antov put in. “The Temos will file a formal complaint once they get the opportunity. But I will submit an after-action report to General Kobbi indicating why it was necessary to land on the hill. That should prevent any fallout.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome. But you won’t thank me for what I’m going to say next. Unfortunately, given my leg, I won’t be able to accompany you. And, before you depart, it will be necessary to do something about Temo. My Rifles keep the O-Chi Scouts out of Baynor’s Bay. But if they were to depart, Temo would take over the south-bay area in a matter of hours. Then, having named herself governor, she would use the Scouts to take over what remains of our planetary government.”

Santana felt a rising sense of anger. The need to deal with what amounted to a civil war before tackling the real mission was frustrating to say the least. But it wouldn’t do any good to say that, and he didn’t. “Yes, sir. Assuming we are able to resolve the Temo problem-what can you tell me about the mission itself?”

Antov grinned approvingly. “Spoken like the fire-eating officer that Kobbi says you are. Let’s adjourn to my study. There’s something I want to show you. Heedu! Bring my crutches.”

Between the slight, thin-limbed O-Chi and the more muscular Santana, they were able to hoist Antov up onto his good leg. Then, with the aid of sturdy crutches, the militia officer thumped his way into a well-furnished study. The walls were hung with trophies, animal skins covered most of the floor, and a huge gun cabinet stood in a corner. There was a desk as well. But it had been pushed back out of the way to make room for the table at the center of the room and the meticulously crafted object that sat on top of it.

Rather than a holo projection of the sort the Legion’s Intel people would put together, it was a handcrafted model reminiscent of those that military leaders had employed thousands of years before. What looked like a small mountain had been painstakingly texturized to make it look real. Miniature fortifications could be seen, and a very convincing paint job had been applied to all of the component parts, including hundreds of miniature trees.

As Santana circled the table, Antov offered a running narration. “The mountain didn’t have a name until the bugs landed six months ago. Now we call it Headstone, because that’s where more than a thousand of our citizens are buried,” Antov said grimly. “That may not sound like a lot to you. Not given the millions who have been killed during the war. But it’s a large number for us. The planet had a population of about sixty thousand people before the war began.”

Santana looked up. “Was that the total population? Or the human population?”

“I don’t know,” Antov admitted. “It’s hard to say how many sticks live out in the bush.”

“Sticks?”

“We call them ‘sticks’ because they look like sticks,” Antov said irritably. “What difference does it make?”

Santana looked over to where Heedu was standing with his back to the wall. He was more visible now that the officer knew what to look for. The O-Chi was wearing a brown fez, matching vest, and a breechcloth. Heedu didn’t have a facial expression as far as Santana could tell. Although he had spent enough time with nonhumans to know that such perceptions were almost always wrong. Most species employed some sort of nonverbal communications. “The number of O-Chies could be important,” Santana said mildly. “It is their planet after all.”

Antov produced a snort of derision. “Please, Major… Spare me the social nonsense. This is war. We don’t have the time or resources to count indigs, initiate assimilation projects, or conduct anthropological studies. I suggest that you focus your attention on the task at hand.”

The tone was harsh, and Santana could tell that Antov was angry. “Yes, sir.”

“There are two ways to attack Headstone,” Antov said, as he picked up the narration. “By air, which is how the first assault went in, or on the ground. Unfortunately, an airborne attack is out of the question at the moment. Simply put, we lack the aircraft required to carry one out. Not to mention the fact that the bugs have had plenty of time in which to install antiaircraft batteries. Our scouts have gotten fairly close and report that the STS installation is surrounded by them.”

Santana knew that “STS” stood for surface-to-space, as in surface-to-space cannons. They were weapons so powerful they could reach into the void and destroy ships thousands of miles out. And according to the briefing he had received before leaving Adobe, if a cannon was constructed on top of Headstone, it would be able to fire on the neighboring O-Chi jump point.

That was important because even though ships could enter hyperspace just about anywhere, jump points were like shortcuts, which could save both time and fuel. So capturing and controlling such sites was important to both sides. “Okay,” Santana replied. “An air assault is out. But what about air cover? Will there be any?”

“We have five CF-150 Daggers and an in-atmosphere transport generally referred to as The Hangar Queen. That’s it,” Antov replied. “The good news is that the Lictor dropped some much-needed parts and ammo into the atmosphere-and we were able to retrieve all but one of the containers. So the 150s will remain operational for a bit longer, and we have enough ordinance for the mission and plenty of field rations.”

Santana nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. We brought supplies of our own-but not enough to equip your forces as well. So tell me about the ground attack. What’s the best way in?”

Antov’s crutches made a thumping sound as he moved in closer. “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it,” he said. “Unfortunately, I don’t see any alternative to a direct assault up the west side of the ridge. The first half mile won’t be too bad. But then you’ll come to a very steep section here. The bugs know that’s the most likely route, of course, so they’ll be firing down on you from prepared positions.”

Santana eyed the nearly vertical slope, knew the quads wouldn’t be able to negotiate it, and felt a growing emptiness in the pit of his stomach. “And then?”

“Then you’ll be on this flat area,” Antov said, pointing a blunt finger. “As you can see from the model, that’s where the Ramanthians placed their support structure. Two-thirds of it is located underground. So you’ll have to force your way in and clear it. Then you’ll be able to access the lowest level and a corridor that leads to an elevator. That will take you up into the STS battery itself.

“Meanwhile,” Antov continued, “I suggest you send part of your force up along the ridge to create a diversion and pull most of the defenders in that direction. That should do the trick.”

The last was said so casually that Antov could have been describing a walk in a park rather than a hellish assault that was certain to claim hundreds of lives even if successful. For one brief moment, Santana wondered if Antov’s wound was real. But Kobbi swore by the man, and there was no denying his record in the Marine Corps.

No, the injury was real. And consistent with the man’s personality. Just as he had been willing to enter a thicket of brush looking for a wounded tusker-Antov would think nothing of attacking Headstone with little more than a swagger stick.

Santana was about to ask a follow-up question when Captain Kimbo charged into the room. “Sir! A Ramanthian submarine surfaced in the middle of the bay. It’s firing on the TACBASE.”

Then, as if to emphasize the seriousness of the situation, a siren began to wail. Baynor’s Bay was under attack.