Heaven's Devils

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

More than a week had passed since Tychus had been released from Military Correctional Facility-R-156 and ordered back to duty. It had been a tough three months, but that was behind him now as a dropship named Fat Girl skimmed over what had been the city of Whitford, and Tychus took the opportunity to eyeball the ruins through an open side door. The slipstream blasted his face and forced him to retreat. But not before he caught a glimpse of devastated buildings, cratered streets, and burned-out vehicles all laid out on a tidy grid.

Whitford had been overrun by what the press liked to refer to as “the breakout.” Although Tychus thought it was more like a break-in, since the Kel-Morians had been able to fight their way through Hobber’s Gap and lay waste to an area between Burr’s Crossing to the south and an outpost called Firebase Zulu up north.

But what they hadn’t been able to do was overrun Fort Howe. That was the home of the 3rd Battalion, 4th Marines, also known as “the Thundering Third.” The battalion had not only pushed the KMs out of Whitford and back toward the mountains, it was currently following the enemy home.

In the meantime Tychus was about to join the 3rd Battalion’s holding company at Fort Howe, where, with any luck at all, he would be able to return to work on Operation Early Retirement. A much-neglected aspect of the war effort that Tychus hoped to refocus his attention on.

The transport began to slow a few minutes later, circled the base below, and lowered itself onto the main landing pad of a starport. The dropship carried eleven other passengers, replacements mostly, who would soon become members of the Thundering Third. They were already pulling their belongings together as the skids touched down and a green light appeared.

When the ramp was extended, Tychus followed a couple officers and some noncoms onto the pad. Once there, he was struck by the fact that, except for one other ship, the area in front of the starport structure was empty! A sure sign that most of the battalion was elsewhere.

All of his original gear had been lost during the transfer from Prosser’s Well to MCF-R-156. So all Tychus had to carry was his duffel bag containing some extra underwear and a Dopp kit. Tychus entered the starport to get directions to the admin building and went back outside to wait for an open-sided jitney.

The five-minute ride served to confirm his initial impression: Fort Howe had been stripped of troops in order to battle the Kel-Morians off to the east. A barracks building had lifted off the ground and was in the process of being repositioned, and the occasional squad could be seen double-timing from one location to the next. But the facility had an empty feel.

He entered the admin building and discovered that half the people who had been on the dropship with him were already there—and lined up in front of a single sergeant who was doggedly working to help them. So a good forty-five minutes passed before it was Tychus’s turn to belly up to the counter and surrender the chip containing his personnel file and his orders.

The clerk assigned Tychus to holding company Echo, scheduled him for a medical exam, and a follow-up appointment with Fort Howe’s “morale” officer. Meaning a shrink who among other things was charged with keeping track of marines fresh out of a military correctional facility.

Having completed those arrangements and assigned Tychus to the barracks where Echo Company was quartered, the sergeant looked up at Tychus with strangely soulless eyes. Was it because the guy was a stylus-pushing rear-echelon functionary? Or was it something else? Whatever it was came across as kind of spooky. “That should take care of it, Private… . Check the monitor in your quarters for chow times.”

“How ’bout some gear?” Tychus demanded. “I lost everything I had at my last duty station. All I have is a change of underwear.”

That problem lay outside the realm of the expected, so the sergeant frowned disapprovingly and tapped a series of keys. Then, having found the necessary entry on the screen in front of him, the frown disappeared. “Here we are,” the clerk said apologetically. “You are authorized to receive a full issue. I missed that, for which I sincerely apologize.”

Tychus’s eyebrows rose. An apology? From a clerk? And a sergeant at that? That was downright weird. “Take this over to Supply Depot 7,” the clerk said, as he passed a chip across the counter. “Give it to the person on duty. They will take care of you.”

After exiting the admin building and catching another jitney ride, Tychus got off across from a low, one-story, metal-clad supply depot with a big white supplydepot7 painted on the front. Heat shimmered as it rose from the concrete, a dropship roared as it passed overhead, and a file of sweat-soaked marines jogged past. They were singing, “One, two, three, four—I love the Marine Corps.”

Tychus knew it was a lie as he made his way toward the supply depot. The homely structure was protected by a defensive blast wall. Not far away, to either side of the structure, two missile turrets sat poised to defend the base against enemy aircraft.

In order to reach the front door, Tychus had to walk a zigzag course between prefab obstacles. It was five degrees cooler inside the building, and Tychus was reminded of Gunnery Sergeant Sims and the supply depot full of Kel-Morian supplies back on Raydin III. Had Sims and Calvin been able to sell off some of the war booty before the logistics team arrived? No, he thought, not without a customer!

That thought made Tychus feel better as he crossed a spacious waiting area to the counter that separated him from long rows of storage racks beyond. Two-person teams could be seen in the back, pulling items off of shelves and scanning them.

A lance corporal was positioned under a sign that read newissue, and nodded as Tychus approached. “Morning … what can I do for you?”

“All my gear was lost in transit from one duty station to another,” Tychus explained. “They told me to report here to receive a new issue. Here’s my A-chip.”

The lance corporal looked young and had probably been in the marines for a year or so, given his rank. He passed the chip by a scanner, eyed the results, and nodded agreeably. “Yup, you’re authorized for a new issue, all right … but we’re in the middle of an inventory at the moment. Come back at 1400 hours and we’ll fix you up.”

Tychus frowned, put both fists on the counter, and leaned forward. “I have a better idea… . Why don’t you, or one of your supply weenies, draw my gear right now? Because I don’t feel like coming back at 1400 hours—or any other time for that matter! Do you scan me?”

“Oh, I scan you all right,” Lance Corporal Jim Raynor replied calmly. “Only trouble is that you have me confused with someone who gives a crap. Private.”

Tychus was momentarily stunned as the other man mirrored his posture, eyes narrowed, looking straight at him. When confronted with his overwhelming size, most people took two involuntary steps backward. But this marine hadn’t flinched, and showed no signs of backing off. Having put himself on a limb, Tychus had no choice but to reach both hands across the counter and grab a generous handful of the other man’s shirt. He gave it a twist for emphasis. Tychus scowled as the marine’s eyes drifted toward his tattooed knuckles. “That’s right, boy. P-A-I-N, something you’re about to become very familiar with,” Tychus growled. “Now, maybe I wasn’t clear… . Get my stuff, and bring it here, or I will rip your fekkin’ head off and piss in the hole!”

That was when Tychus felt something hard jab the back of his skull, heard the familiar click-clack sound, and knew someone was holding a shotgun to his head. “That’s one possibility,” a third voice drawled, “or I could blow your head off and check to see if there’s anything inside. My guess is no.”

Tychus was still holding a fistful of shirt as the lance corporal smiled slowly. “I would listen to Private Harnack if I were you,” the marine said reasonably. “He shot three Kel-Morians last week—so he might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Of course, it’s hard to tell where Hank’s concerned.”

Tychus was furious, but, determined not to let his emotions show, he released his grip. Then, having snatched the A-chip back, he turned to go. The red-haired marine, with his supercilious smile still firmly in place, stood well out of reach. A rectangle of bright sunlight beckoned—and Tychus made for it. A skirmish had been lost—but the battle was far from over.

THE RAFFIN BROTHERS MINE NEAR FORT HOWE ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

The Kel-Morian rippers had been living deep underground for six days. The main chamber was lit with emergency lanterns, and strings of lights crisscrossed the area above. Power was supplied by a generator that had been liberated from the Confeds and brought down into the mine.

Dozens of matte black powered combat suits lined the walls. Soldiers sat in small groups talking, gambling, or fine-tuning various pieces of equipment. They wore every scrap of clothing they had, because despite the meager heat emanating from a few jury-rigged heaters, it was cold in the mine.

Foreman Oleg Benson didn’t know very much about the mine, and didn’t need to know anything more than the fact that it had been abandoned at some point, and was deep enough to hide in. He sat off by himself, as befitted a Kel-Morian foreman, sucking on an unlit pipe and wondering how much longer he and his men would be required to wait. One day? Two? Certainly no more than that, because he and his troops were running short of food.

But if his superior’s plan was successful, Benson and his rippers would play a pivotal role in one of the most daring raids of the war. Because the mine was only a few miles east of Fort Howe, which, having been stripped of troops, was ripe for the plucking. And in more ways than one.

Because once Benson and his grunts overran the base and secured a landing zone for an airborne assault team flown in from the east, there would be ample opportunity to loot the base. An activity Overseer Scaggs not only approved of, but insisted upon!

It was Scaggs who had the clarity to see an opportunity for victory and sent the rippers into hiding even as the marines from Fort Howe pushed Kel-Morian forces toward the east. A move that could convert a loss into a victory if successful. A group of guerillas began to sing and Benson smiled.

FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

After grudgingly returning to collect his new gear from the supply depot at 1400 hours, Tychus was about to go to chow, when a cute, ginger-haired corporal on a motorized cart arrived in front of the barracks. “Is Private Findlay here?” she asked sweetly as she hopped out.

Tychus ran his eyes up and down the corporal’s petite, curvy frame. “Who’s asking?”

“So it is you, then.” She looked up at him. “You’re much bigger in person than in your picture,” she offered innocently.

Tychus smiled—a genuine smile that reflected the bevy of impure thoughts that were running through his mind at that particular moment. “Yes, I’m Findlay,” he acknowledged. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Beats me,” she shrugged as she motioned to the cart. “Hop in! Lieutenant Colonel Vanderspool wants to speak with you.”

Tychus swore under his breath as he walked around to the passenger side. Had he been assigned to a shit detail of some sort? Yes, probably. He was both surprised and worried. Lieutenant Colonel Vanderspool was in charge of both the 3rd Battalion and the base. So if he wanted to talk with a lowly private, then it was probably because of an infraction. But what? There hadn’t been enough time to steal anything.

Still, Tychus had no choice but to get in the cart and allow himself to be transported to the command center. Suddenly Tychus was painfully aware of the fact that his uniform was wrinkled and his boots were in desperate need of some polish.

But there was nothing Tychus could do about those deficiencies as he followed the sexy little corporal inside, stepped onto the lift platform, and walked into the well-furnished waiting area outside the base commander’s office on the observation deck. Tychus caught a glimpse of Vanderspool through his open door, as he sat on the corner of his desk chatting with an officer.

Tychus got the impression of a man whose handsome features had begun to blur as a result of age and too much good food. Vanderspool was, according to what the corporal had said, just in from the field. But if that was the case, Tychus couldn’t see any signs of hardship as he examined the officer’s starched uniform and immaculate boots. A hands-off type then, somebody who preferred to sit around and shoot the breeze with staff officers, rather than spend time on the front lines.

The visitor laughed at something Vanderspool said, got up out of the guest chair, and exited the office. That was when the corporal stuck her head in and said something Tychus couldn’t hear, before motioning for him to enter.

Tychus took three steps into the office, came to attention, and announced himself. “Private Tychus Findlay, reporting as ordered, sir!”

Now that Tychus was closer he could see that Vanderspool had hard eyes, a tracery of broken veins that wandered over the bridge of his nose, and a thin-lipped mouth. “At ease,” Vanderspool said approvingly. “Sorry about the short notice, but I’ve been commuting between the fort and Hobber’s Gap, where we’re about to push the KMs back into the disputed zone. Please, have a seat.”

The tone had been congenial so far, so Tychus felt somewhat relieved as he sat down, but still on guard. Because he’d been summoned for a reason, and odds were he wasn’t going to like it.

Vanderspool had circled the big desk by that time. The executive-style chair sighed as he lowered his weight onto it. “You have an interesting record,” Vanderspool commented, as he plucked an old-fashioned letter opener off the desktop and began to toy with it. “You worked your way up to staff sergeant, struck an officer, and were sent to a correctional facility on Raydin III.”

The officer paused at that point, but Tychus knew better than to speak. Some officers like to run their mouths, and Vanderspool was clearly one of them. But where was the one-sided conversation headed?

“It’s only fair to remind you that you are on what amounts to parole,” Vanderspool continued sternly. “One word from me and you’ll be back in a correctional facility.” His voice darkened. “And if you think hard labor was bad, you can only imagine what else we’re capable of. If you mess with me, boy, you might just end up a prisoner in your own body. Scan me?”

Tychus had no idea what Vanderspool was referring to and didn’t want to find out. And technically, he wasn’t on parole, but it didn’t seem up for discussion. Besides, he wanted to get the hell out of there, so Tychus gave the answer that every officer likes to hear. “Yes, sir.”

“But,” Vanderspool said, brightening. “I believe in second chances. Which is why I’m going to give you this.”

Vanderspool slid a patch across the table. Tychus couldn’t hide his surprise when he saw three inverted chevrons. “That’s right,” Vanderspool said. “You’re a sergeant again. Not a staff sergeant like before—you’ll have to earn that rocker, but a buck sergeant. Congratulations!”

Tychus was not only shocked, but exceedingly pleased, because sergeants have more opportunities to steal things than privates do. “Thank you, sir … thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” Vanderspool replied indulgently. “The battalion suffered a lot of casualties during the last week—and I’ll find a slot for you in one of my line companies.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tychus said. “In the meantime, could I ask a favor?”

“Well, that depends,” Vanderspool answered. “I’m afraid a pass is out of the question at the moment.”

“No, sir, it isn’t anything like that,” Tychus assured him sanctimoniously. “If I can make a difference during the next few weeks, then I’d like to do so.”

THE RAFFIN BROTHERS MINE NEAR FORT HOWE ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

Having received the necessary order, the Kel-Morian rippers were armed and ready to attack. There were dozens of them, all standing in a rough semicircle and wearing the flat black armor for which they were famous. The last-minute briefing by Foreman Oleg Benson wasn’t absolutely necessary, but was appreciated, since they were a close-knit group and fought for each other as much as for the Kel-Morian Combine.

There was very little chance that the Confeds would pick up a comm unit signal originating from underground, but rather than run that minimal risk, Benson ordered his troops to listen with visors open. “All right, men,” he said, as his voice echoed off the walls of the mine. “This is the moment we’ve been waiting for! The eve of what will be one of our most celebrated victories.

“Think about it… . We are only miles from Fort Howe, the base has been stripped of personnel to fight our regulars up in the mountains, and those who remain don’t know we’re coming! Who could ask for more?”

The reply was the time-honored cry of “HEGERON!” which paid homage to the famous battle on a Kel-Morian mining world named Feronis. According to legend, a gang of armored rippers had taken on an entire battalion of motorized infantry on the plain of Hegeron and defeated them. The extent of the victory had probably been exaggerated over the years, but it was still a point of pride.

“That’s right,” Benson agreed. “Tonight is the night to remember not only the battle of Hegeron, but the evil that dwells in the high-rise towers of Tarsonis, where members of the Old Families grow rich off those who slave in their factories. Like Kel-Morian soldiers everywhere, the rippers will never forget that workers have a right to a fair wage, to basic social services, and to free elections!” And by that, he meant wealth, possessions, and power. What else was worth fighting for?

The cry of “HEGERON!” was much louder this time, and a fitting moment for Benson to close his visor, which was a signal for the others to do likewise.

Then, walking single file, the warriors made their way up to the surface, where near total darkness was waiting to cloak them. They split into smaller teams at that point, turned toward the west, and began to jog. Smaller predators, those to whom the night normally belonged, scattered in every direction. Death was on the loose and it was time to hide.