A fighting chance

9

PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

The sky was so dark, it could have been evening. Occasional bolts of lightning strobed the sky, thunder rolled across the land, and the rain fell in relentless sheets. Most of the water was intercepted by the uppermost layer of foliage. Then it trickled from leaf to leaf before eventually reaching the already-soaked ground. That was why the O-Chi Raiders were temporarily trapped on a rise that had been transformed into an island. The defensive ditch had become a moat that was subsequently subsumed by steadily rising water. “We won’t be going anywhere today,” Rona-Sa predicted sourly. “Not even the tractors could plow through this mess. Never mind the cyborgs and the bio bods.”

Rona-Sa was correct, and Santana knew it, as the officers stood next to Alpha Company’s quad and looked out over what some wag had dubbed “Lake No-go.” Santana was wearing a bush hat plus a poncho, but his uniform was wet nevertheless. Two days had passed since the Ramanthian attack and resulting stampede. And, insofar as Santana could tell, the bugs believed that the battalion had been destroyed.

That perception wouldn’t last forever, of course, which was why it was imperative to close the distance between the Raiders and their objective as quickly as possible. Before the Ramanthians discovered the truth. Something sinuous snaked through the turgid brown water about twenty feet offshore. Santana looked at the Hudathan. He wasn’t wearing any raingear and seemed unfazed by the weather. “The least you could do is look miserable like the rest of us.”

“You should visit Hudatha,” Rona-Sa replied humorously. “First it rains, then it begins to snow.”

Santana knew that his XO’s home world was in orbit around a star called Ember, which was 29 percent larger than Terra’s sun and well on the way to becoming a red giant. That, plus the fact that the planet Hudatha was locked into a Trojan relationship with a Jovian binary, produced a wildly fluctuating climate. Something that Rona-Sa’s people had evolved to cope with. “I’ll put a visit on my list of things to do right after we win the war,” Santana replied dryly. “In the meantime, let’s use the day to perform maintenance and rest the troops.”

“It’ll be two days minimum,” the Hudathan said gloomily. “Because once the rain stops, we’ll be up to our asses in mud.”

Santana sighed as Rona-Sa turned away. The battalion still had a long way to go, and he was beginning to wonder if he had bitten off more than he could chew. Rainwater trickled down his neck, and mud sucked at his boots as he turned to leave. If there was an answer, it continued to elude him.

The downpour stopped shortly after the noon rats were issued. The clouds parted, the sun appeared, and the ground began to steam. It was still too muddy to go anywhere, however, so all the battalion could do was eat lunch and watch the waters of Lake No-go start to recede.

It was a very frustrating time for Santana, who was aching to get under way but knew it would be foolhardy to do so. The solution was to stay busy, which he did by visiting each company, supervising things that didn’t need to be supervised, and generally making a pest of himself. So Santana was kneeling next to a tractor, inspecting a huge bogie wheel, when he heard a squelching sound and turned to find Corporal Colby at his side. “Sorry to interrupt, sir… But an urgent call came in.”

“A call? From whom?” Santana responded, as he came to his feet.

“A Colonel Farber, sir.”

“He was on the hypercom?”

“No, sir. The radio, sir. The colonel is in orbit and asked for our coordinates.”

Santana frowned as they crossed the compound together. “He’s about to drop?”

“Yes, sir.”

Santana’s thoughts churned as he stepped under a widespread tarp and made his way over to the folding table where the battalion’s com gear had been set up. Farber was a much-decorated officer, best known for leading a raid on Worber’s World in a futile attempt to rescue a group of Confederacy diplomats being held there. Unfortunately, all of the prisoners had been killed by the Ramanthians along with more than four hundred of Farber’s five-hundred-person landing team.

Some of the press referred to the mission as “Farber’s Folly” and claimed that the officer was incompetent. Others portrayed Farber as a misunderstood hero. And because Earth had fallen and the Confederacy was badly in need of heroes, the second perspective won out. Major Farber received a Medal of Valor from President Nankool and was promoted to colonel. Now he was in orbit around O-Chi 4 and about to land. The question was, why?

The com tech gave Santana a headset with a boom mike attached. He put it on. “This is Zulu Nine. Over.”

The voice that filled his ears was bright and confident. “Farber here… Glad to meet you, Major. Sorry about the short notice, but there’s a war on, eh what? There will be two of us. The navy types assure me that we’ll put down within two miles of your position. Once on the ground, we’ll stay put until your pickup team arrives. Over.”

Given the circumstances, there wasn’t anything Santana could say except, “Yes, sir. Over.”

The next thirty minutes were spent assembling a pickup team and getting it ready to go. In addition to Lieutenant Ponco, Santana chose to take Dietrich and four cyborgs, including Joshi. After that, it was simply a matter of waiting for the computer-guided drop pod to enter the atmosphere. Then, assuming that it held together, parachutes would be deployed, and a homing beacon would come on. Ponco was ready and waiting when the time came. “It looks like the pod is going to land about a mile out, sir. The swabbies did a nice job.”

Santana nodded. “Let’s hope the bugs are taking a nap. Because if they aren’t, the pod will show them where to look for us. Let’s get going.”

Ponco did what she could to lead the group along a path that kept them up out of the water and the worst of the mud. The result was a snaking route that made the trip longer but prevented the heavy cyborgs from becoming trapped in the muck. But it wasn’t raining, and Santana might have enjoyed the shafts of sunlight that slanted down through the trees if it hadn’t been for the sense of foreboding that hung over him.

Joshi’s foot pods made sucking sounds as Ponco led the team along a rise, through a screen of vegetation, and into the clearing beyond. That was where Santana spotted the two-man pod. Or what remained of it. The egg-shaped capsule had been blackened while falling through the atmosphere and dented by a succession of thick branches as it crashed through the jungle canopy. Then, after hitting the ground with what had probably been a resounding thump, the petal-like side panels had opened, revealing the passengers within.

One of them was still seated, one leg over the other, smoking an old-fashioned pipe. The officer was wearing a green beret complete with the winged-hand-and-dagger emblem of the 2 ^ nd Regiment Etranger De Parachutistes, which legionnaires referred to as the 2 ^ nd REP. It was an organization that didn’t include cyborgs and no longer used parachutes except to slow their combat pods just prior to landing.

Farber was dressed in the shimmery “ghost” camos that Santana’s troops were supposed to have but didn’t. The fabric sought to match the background as Joshi came to a halt and Santana jumped to the ground. He saluted. “Welcome to O-Chi 4, sir. I’m Major Santana.”

Farber knocked the tobacco out of his pipe and raised it by way of a reply. “Nice of you to drop in, Major. I was beginning to wonder. Well, better late than never as they say. Perhaps you would be so kind as to have one of your people cut that parachute down. We wouldn’t want to attract any bugs, would we?”

There was a strong possibility that the Ramanthians had tracked the pod electronically and knew exactly where it was. But there was no point in saying so, and Santana didn’t. He looked up to where the fabric was caught in the foliage above. “I believe Lieutenant Ponco is working on that, sir,” Santana said. A branch snapped as the last cord was cut, and the chute came slithering down to puddle on the ground.

“Good,” Farber said, as he removed a pack from the pod. “Which machine will I be riding?”

Santana didn’t want to get crosswise with Farber but knew his legionnaires hated being referred to as “machines” and felt compelled to say something. “They are cyborgs, sir… And you will ride Corporal Batta. He fought on Gamma-014. So you’ll be in good hands.”

“Yes, of course,” Farber replied. Although it was clear that he couldn’t see the hulking T-2 as anything other than a piece of equipment.

“I was told to expect two people,” Santana said tactfully.

“Here I am,” a sandy-haired man in civilian clothes said, as he emerged from the bushes. “I was taking a leak. The name is Smith. Harry Smith.”

Something about the hard planes of Smith’s face, his well-worn body armor, and the businesslike submachine gun that he held across his chest screamed special ops. The kind of man who had worn a uniform at some point in the past and was way too savvy to reveal himself until he got a good look at whatever appeared out of the jungle. Santana nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smith. You’ll be riding Private McKay over there.”

Smith turned toward the T-2. “Thanks for coming out to fetch us, McKay. You volunteered for this mission if I remember correctly. What’s wrong? Are you crazy?”

The last was said with a grin, and Tena McKay laughed. It had a strangely feminine sound given the size and shape of her electromechanical body. “Sir, yes sir.”

Santana was impressed. It seemed that Smith had done his homework and then some. That meant the civilian was familiar with his background as well. Something to keep in mind during the days ahead.

“What about the pod?” Dietrich inquired as he gathered the parachute into an untidy bundle. “Should we leave it as is?”

The question was directed to Santana, but Farber chose to answer for him. “There’s no way to destroy the pod, so shove the chute inside and let’s go.”

Dietrich didn’t even glance at Farber. “Sir?”

Santana could see the writing on the wall. Farber had been sent to take command of the battalion in the wake of Antov’s death. But even though Santana knew that was to be expected, he felt a sense of loss because he’d come to see the O-Chi Raiders as belonging to him. Plus, there had been the secret hope that a replacement wouldn’t be available. He was careful to keep his voice professionally neutral. “You heard the colonel, Sergeant Major. Hide the chute and mount up.”

Dietrich did as he was told, and Santana saw what might have been a look of satisfaction flicker across Farber’s face. His authority had been questioned and affirmed. Everything was as it should be.

Once Farber and Smith were aboard their respective T-2s and properly strapped in, Ponco led the party back along the path taken before. They arrived at the encampment thirty minutes later. Farber jumped to the ground and turned away from the cyborg without so much as a thank-you. “So,” Farber said, as he looked around, “I know we’re in the jungle, but that’s no reason to tolerate laxness. Surely we can tidy up a bit, eh what? Maintaining a military appearance is critical to morale.”

Santana, who was standing a few feet away, felt a rising sense of anger. He thought the camp was very well organized thanks to Rona-Sa’s ceaseless efforts. But he knew that to say so would sound defensive. “Yes, sir.”

“We’ll tackle that later,” Farber said breezily. “Please pull your officers together. I have some announcements to make.”

By that time, Santana was positive that Farber had been sent to take command. A development that would make him Farber’s XO. But rather than share his orders with Santana first, as most commanding officers would, it appeared that Farber was going to tell everyone all at once. Was that an intentional slight? Or a matter of personal style? There was no way to know. “Yes, sir,” Santana replied. “I’ll have Corporal Colby track them down.”

“Ten minutes,” Farber said sternly, as he produced his pipe. “Time is critical.”

Santana already knew that. Or thought he did. And wondered what sort of news Farber was about to deliver. Twelve minutes later, all the officers were gathered in the muddy headquarters area. Some stood and some sat on gear boxes as Farber eyed their faces. “Good afternoon. My name is Colonel Max Farber. I was sent to O-Chi 4 to take command of this battalion in the wake of Colonel Antov’s unfortunate death. As a result, Major Santana will assume the role of Executive Officer-and Captain Rona-Sa will take on the responsibilities of the S-3 or operations officer. Both appointments are effective immediately.”

“Now,” Farber said, “let’s talk about the task before us. It’s my duty to inform you that the time frame for this mission has changed. I believe the orders issued to Colonel Antov called for him to capture or destroy the Ramanthian STS cannon ‘as soon as practically feasible.’ Or some mumbo jumbo to that effect. Now, based on strategic necessity, a hard deadline has been imposed. Mr. Smith… Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain.”

Smith had been seated on a box of ammo. As he stood, his blue eyes swept the group. “I assume most of you are aware that the bugs are in the midst of a population explosion so significant that they were forced to acquire more real estate. In the simplest terms possible, that’s why we’re fighting the bastards.”

Santana was watching from the back row. What was Smith’s role anyway? Subject-matter expert? Or a minder sent to keep an eye on Farber? Time would tell.

“And making the situation even more difficult for them,” Smith continued, “is the fact that newly hatched Ramanthians can be very destructive. So much so that the bugs don’t want them on Hive and plan to raise them on nursery planets. Jericho is a good example of that. Having gained control of the world, the chits planted hundreds of thousands of eggs there. And when the nymphs hatched, they ran wild. You can ask Major Santana about that. He led a successful mission to rescue President Nankool from a POW camp there.”

All eyes swiveled to Santana. Including those that belonged to Colonel Farber. Some of the officers were aware of the mission, and some weren’t. But judging from Farber’s frown, he was cognizant of Santana’s combat record and how it compared to his own.

Santana felt a sense of relief as Smith continued, and all of the heads turned back. “So one way to cause the enemy grief, and force them to divert critical resources away from our core worlds, is to launch attacks against Ramanthian nursery planets. And that’s what we’re going to do.

“In twelve days, a group of Confederacy vessels will assemble at the O-Chi jump point and depart for bug-controlled space. That means that if the STS cannon on Headstone is still operational, the ships will be sitting ducks. But that won’t happen because this battalion is going to destroy it.”

Farber nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Smith. I’d say that sums things up rather nicely. The ‘so what,’ as they say, is that you and your troops will no longer be able to dillydally. From this point forward, we will march day and night toward our objective, taking only those breaks that are absolutely necessary. So it will no longer be possible to establish elaborate camps like this one. But do not fear… The battalion will still be able to defend itself.”

Farber waved his pipe like a wand. “Company commanders and staff will remain. Platoon leaders will rejoin their troops and prepare to depart at 1800 hours local.”

Once the platoon leaders had departed, Farber took up the next item on his agenda. His eyes sought Santana and found him. “The plans submitted by Colonel Antov called for a direct assault on Headstone. That, in spite of the disastrous attempt to dislodge the Ramanthians shortly after they put down. Is that correct?”

Santana nodded. “Yes, sir. Although we…”

Farber dismissed what Santana was about to say with a wave of his pipe. “Save that thought, Major. We’ll come back to it. First, I want to share the new plan. Rather than attack Headstone, we’re going to destroy the geothermal tap that provides the facility with power. That will be faster and prevent unnecessary casualties.”

Santana raised a hand and spoke without being called on. “Excuse me, sir… We considered that approach and ultimately decided against it.”

Farber sighed. His expression was that of a parent coping with a recalcitrant child. “You are no longer in command, Major Santana. I really must remind you of that.”

“Yes, sir. I know sir,” Santana replied doggedly. “But our reasoning still holds. Even if we cut power to the cannon by destroying the tap, the bugs might be able to get off a couple of shots using an alternative power source. A fusion generator, for example. And even one energy bolt could play hell with the ships gathered around the jump point. Should we take that chance?”

“He has a point,” Smith put in mildly.

But Farber was far from convinced. “That’s true,” he said contemptuously. “And the Ramanthians may have a plan to crash an asteroid into one of our ships. Or place a curse on us. But neither possibility is very likely. So I suggest that we apply some common sense.” The meeting came to an end ten minutes later.

Dietrich spoke to Santana as the company commanders departed. “I told Colby to record the meeting, sir.”

Santana knew what the noncom was thinking. Later, if Farber’s plan blew up, a record of what had been said could be valuable. Especially if Farber attempted to shift the blame. Though uncommon, such things weren’t unheard of. Santana nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant Major. Let’s hope everything goes as planned.”

Night-vision technology enabled the battalion to travel during the hours of darkness although doing so entailed more risk. Especially where the possibility of accidents was concerned. Farber had reduced the amount of rest the troops got, so they began to tire. That had a negative impact on situational awareness. And without any defenses to protect the battalion while it was at rest, Santana feared what would happen if they were attacked.

Yet as the hours passed, and the battalion continued to make steady progress toward its goal, none of Santana’s fears was realized. The troops performed well in spite of a lack of sleep, there weren’t any serious accidents, and nobody attacked them. So that by early morning of the third day, Santana was beginning to think that he’d been too cautious. The battalion had covered thirty-six miles since Farber had taken command, which was no small accomplishment given the difficult terrain.

In the meantime, as the potential pathways to Headstone and the geothermal tap began to diverge, Lieutenant Ponco reported that the bugs were searching along the first route. And had Santana been in command, that was where the battalion would have been. All of which took a toll on his self-confidence and raised the same question. He could lead a platoon, and he could lead a company, but what about a battalion? The jury was out.

Temo was tired and had every right to be. For the past five days, she and a tribe of O-Chi natives had been following a straight line from the Ramanthian geo tap back to Baynor’s Bay. And that was a complete waste of time because Antov had been planning to attack Headstone and there was no reason why his off-world successor would do otherwise. But Commander Dammo wanted to make sure. Especially after falling for an electronic decoy and toasting fifty square miles of forest. So while the bugs searched the line of march that led from their base to Baynor’s Bay, she had been sent out to beat the bushes south of that route.

Still, Temo thought to herself, it felt good to sit between the roots of a towering Ba-Na tree and relax for a moment. Birds sang their songs, shafts of sunlight splashed the forest floor, and insects hummed as they darted from place to place. All of which was better than hanging around Headstone waiting for the Ramanthians to win the war.

The daydream was shattered as foliage rustled overhead and an O-Chi named Fither dropped out of the tree to land on the ground in front of her. The warrior’s face was decorated with diagonal slashes of white bird dung, an antiquated Negar I assault rifle was slung across his back, and a knife was strapped to his right thigh. Fither was a member of the Otha tribe. And the Temo clan had been doing business with them for more than twenty years. “I see you,” Temo said respectfully.

“And I see you,” Fither responded. “The forest knows.”

“Yes,” Temo said gravely. “The forest knows.”

That was nonsense, of course, because if the forest knew, it would have destroyed all of the sentient creatures on O-Chi before they could cut down trees or sink geothermal taps down through the planet’s crust. But that was the sort of crap one had to tolerate in order to interact with the sticks.

“So, Fither,” she said patiently. “What have you got for me?”

“There are walking machines,” Fither answered. And then he pointed. “That way.”

“Walking machines, huh?” Temo inquired skeptically. “A few days ago you told me that an army of ghost warriors was about to attack.”

Fither shrugged. “Dream. So sorry. Have picture this time.”

“Excellent,” Temo said approvingly. “Let’s see it.”

Fither removed the small device from a belt pouch and gave it over. By providing each of her scouts with Ramanthian-manufactured cameras, Temo had been able to increase the accuracy of the information they provided to her. Temo pressed the bug-style dimple switch, and video blossomed. The image was fractal, in keeping with the way that the chits normally saw things, but came together when a second button was pushed.

The viewpoint was from up in a tree looking straight down. Temo felt her heart start to beat faster as she saw a column of soldiers pass beneath the lens, followed by a T-2, and a hulking quad. Had the cyborgs “seen” the blob of heat high above? Probably. But the assholes couldn’t shoot everything in the forest. Temo remembered the attacks on Signal Hill and the family’s hunting lodge. She smiled grimly. “Thank you, Fither. Good job.”

It had been a long, hard day, and Farber was riding near the head of the column. The troops were tired. He knew that. But if he could wring one more mile out of them before the evening rest break, then so much the better. Farber was used to riding a T-2 by that time. The main problem was low-hanging branches and the need to duck frequently. So it was a relief when the column entered a long corridor in which there was no undergrowth to speak of, and Ba-Na trees grew on both sides of the path. Farber noticed that the forest giants were spaced too evenly to have occurred naturally and turned toward the man on the T-2 next to him. “Look at those trees, Mr. Smith. I think they were planted.”

Smith opened his mouth to reply. But that was when a blue-feathered dart penetrated his left eye, and whatever he had been about to say was transformed into a scream. Farber watched in horror as Smith plucked the dart out of his eye and a dollop of viscous goo dribbled down his cheek. Then, having examined the tip with his good eye, Smith said, “Poison.” He might have said more but was prevented from doing so as his body jerked spasmodically and the neurotoxin spread through his circulatory system.

Farber wanted to shout a warning, but there wasn’t any point in doing so as hundreds of missiles sleeted down out of the foliage above. Bio bods screamed, some having been hit a dozen times, as they fell kicking to the ground.

That was bad enough. But the moment the dart storm stopped, the O-Chies opened fire with their Ramanthian-supplied Negar assault rifles. Many of the natives were piss-poor shots-and some of the rifles failed to work properly. But they had the element of surprise on their side, not to mention the high ground, and the range was relatively short. Farber hit his harness release, jumped to the ground, and ran for cover as his T-2 fired at targets above. The slaughter had started.

Santana was at the very end of the column when the ambush began. The idea was to make sure that both segments would have leadership if the battalion was cut in two. That was a good thing. But bit by bit, as the day progressed, the column had been allowed to stretch. So as the enemy fire lashed down from above, Santana was a good half mile from Farber, who, according to the information displayed on his HUD, was alive but strangely silent.

All Santana could do was jump in and try to save the battalion. There wasn’t enough time in which to pull everyone together into a single formation. So he chinned the switch in his helmet. “This is Zulu Nine. Rally around the quads! Use them for cover. Over.”

Then, having switched to the intercom, he spoke to Joshi. “Take me forward, Sergeant. And kill as many of those bastards as you can.”

“Roger that, sir,” Joshi replied stoically, as he began to jog and fire both of his arm-mounted weapons at the same time. A half-slagged body fell as blips of blue light stabbed the foliage-and a second attacker was transformed into a bloody mist as a burst of machine-gun fire tore his body apart. Joshi’s fire combined with all the rest tore holes in the jungle’s green canopy. Bits of leaves, twigs, and chunks of wood rained down on the troops, along with O-Chi bodies and parts of bodies.

But it wasn’t enough. Because as the O-Chies fired down on them, dozens of bio bods staggered and fell until Joshi was forced to jump over their bodies. Then what looked like black dots fell out of the trees, hit the ground, and bounced back into the air. “Grenades!” someone shouted, as a bright explosion cut a T-2’s legs out from under her. The cyborg’s rider was dead, but the T-2 continued to fire up into the foliage as a pair of bio bods towed her body toward cover.

Santana took note. First automatic weapons, then grenades. The bugs were supplying the O-Chies with arms. Were the Ramanthians providing leadership as well? That seemed likely. The ambush had been well planned and executed.

Then the time for analysis was over as Joshi rounded a curve and Alpha Company’s quad came into sight. Most of what remained of Zarrella’s company and the tail end of Bravo Company were gathered around the cyborg. His name was Coto, and his minigun roared defiantly as it sent a steady stream of projectiles up into the ragged canopy.

By then it was clear that the battalion was up against hundreds of native warriors, there wasn’t anyplace to hide, and, even though they were impervious to the poison darts, the T-2s were taking damage from Ramanthian grenades. It was tempting to send the troops into the surrounding jungle, where they might be able to take shelter, but Santana knew that danger lurked there as well. The O-Chies knew the forest in a way that his troops never could-and would presumably like nothing better than to pick them off one at a time.

So as Joshi came to an abrupt halt and Santana bailed out, the situation was bleak. Bullets pinged as they hit Coto’s armor, geysers of dirt leapt into the air as an O-Chi warrior fired blindly from above, and someone screamed over an open mike. “Medic! I need a medic!”

Santana looked up, saw what might have been a shadow jump from one branch to the next, and fired his carbine. A warbling cry was heard, and branches broke as an O-Chi hit the ground a few feet away. There was some satisfaction in that but not much since it did nothing to alter the underlying situation.

That was when Captain Ryley arrived on the scene. Charlie Company had been in the lead, with Farber tucked between the squad on point and the second platoon, when the shit hit the fan. Now, as Ryley’s T-2 carried him back in the direction they had come from, it looked as though the ex-militia officer had decided to run. Santana swore, raised his carbine, and was about to take a shot at Ryley when the other officer’s cyborg swerved. Seconds later, Ryley was on the ground and sprinting toward the quad. “Major! Order the quads to fire missiles at the Ba-Na trees. They’re the tallest ones. Do it now.”

Santana didn’t like Ryley. And couldn’t see how firing missiles at trees was going to help. But if the battalion went down, Ryley would, too. So, desperate to do something, Santana gave the necessary order. “Zulu Nine to all quads. Target the tallest trees and fire missiles at them now. Over.”

There was a pause as the cyborgs processed the unexpected order and launched their missiles. Then came a series of loud booms as the weapons struck, the trees were severed, and the tops began to fall. “More!” Ryley demanded. “Fire again.”

The quads obeyed. The first trees were falling in slow motion by then. There was a loud, crackling noise as hundreds if not thousands of branches broke, a multitude of vines snapped, and the forest was torn asunder. The ground shook as the gigantic trunks struck, a T-2 and its rider disappeared as a massive Ba-Na tree fell on them, and a vast cloud of dust rose. And then, as it began to settle, the incoming fire ceased.

That was when Santana understood. Being the tallest structures in the forest, the Ba-Na trees had been supporting the parasitic plants and the snakelike vines that provided the O-Chi warriors with what amounted to elevated highways. Scores of indigs had been killed as an entire layer of the environment was destroyed. A few survived, only to be cut down by vengeful troopers.

Finally, as the gunfire died away, it was time for the surviving platoon leaders and noncoms to begin the bloody business of salvaging what they could. Santana had been kneeling next to the quad. He stood, raised his visor, and looked at Ryley. “Thank you, Captain. You saved a lot of lives today. I won’t forget.”

Ryley produced a crooked smile. “You’re welcome, sir.”

“You were up front when they hit us,” Santana said. “What happened to Colonel Farber?”

“He ran into the jungle,” Ryley replied coldly. “The bastard.”

Santana nodded. “We’ll send someone to look for him as soon as we can. In the meantime, there’s a lot of work to do. We’ll spend the night here. I want a ditch, a berm, and all the rest of it.”

“You’ll have it, sir,” Ryley said. And both men went to work.

The battle was over, and an eerie silence had fallen over the forest. In fact, it seemed as if all the jungle creatures had fled or gone into hiding. But Dietrich knew that danger lurked all around him as he followed a trail of broken twigs, crushed plants, and occasional boot prints deeper into the green maze. In spite of the damage inflicted on the area to the west, this part of the forest was still intact. So, alert to the possibility that O-Chies could be watching from above, the noncom kept his rifle up and ready to fire.

While Sergeant Major Dice Dietrich wasn’t a native, he had fought on LaNor, Savas, Jericho, and Gamma-014. Often under hellish conditions. So he knew a thing or two about how to stay alive in a variety of environments.

But there weren’t any snipers, trip wires, or man traps waiting for him. Just the zigzag trail of destruction Colonel Farber had left as he ran pell-mell into the jungle, looking for a place to hide. Not that the noncom needed such evidence. He could “see” Farber’s location projected on the inside of his visor. He paused next to a small stream and took a long look around before stepping over the flow of water onto some soft mud. His right boot obliterated one of the tracks Farber had left.

Then it was time to make his way up a gentle slope, climb over a rotting log, and push his way through a grove of spindly tree trunks to a point where he could look down into a small clearing. And that was where Farber was. His helmet lay on the ground, most of his shirt was missing, and he had been tied to a tree. “Thank God!” Farber said feelingly, as Dietrich appeared. “I chased one of the bastards into the forest. That was when they captured me.”

It was a simple story. And Dietrich might have been willing to believe it if he hadn’t seen Farber run with his own eyes. Now that Dietrich was closer, he could see the writing on the officer’s bare chest. “Go back or die. Maj. D. Temo.”

“So Major Temo led the ambush… Now that’s interesting.”

“Cut me down,” Farber growled. “That’s an order.”

“I’d like to,” Dietrich responded, as he sat on a moss-covered log. “I really would. If only to testify at your court-martial. But that would be way off in the future, wouldn’t it? After this mission fails-which it surely will if I leave you in command.”

Farber’s face was bright red. “How dare you? I’m a colonel! And you are a noncom. You will do as you’re told or pay the price.”

Then, as if thinking better of his words, the tone became more conciliatory. “But, if you free me now, we’ll pretend that this conversation never took place.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Dietrich replied. “That STS cannon needs to be destroyed-and Major Santana is the man who can get the job done. We wouldn’t be in this fix if the brass had left him in command.”

“Santana is nothing,” Farber said contemptuously. “He has some medals, but so what? So do dozens of others. I’m slated to be a general. Do you hear that? A general. I could take care of a man such as yourself. Think about it. Would you like a commission? I can make you a lieutenant today. Right now.”

“I was a corporal when I met Santana,” Dietrich said reflectively. “He was a second lieutenant back then-having been busted from first. That was because a superior officer ordered him to fire on a group of civilians, and he refused. So I stuck with him, saved his ass a couple of times, and he saved mine. Hell, he saved me from myself. From becoming the kind of person you are. So I owe him. And that’s going to be real hard on you.”

“They’ll hang you,” Farber said, as the full import of Dietrich’s words sank in. “You’ll die with your feet kicking in the air.”

“Maybe,” Dietrich conceded as he stood. “And maybe not. But one thing’s for sure. You won’t be around to see it.”

“No!” Farber screamed, and wet his pants. “Help me!” A single gunshot rang out. The battle was over.