Heaven's Devils

CHAPTER NINETEEN

FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

The sun was low in the sky, shadows lay long on the ground, and the air was starting to cool as Lisa Cassidy prepared to leave the base. Although the nearby city of Whitford lay in ruins, and the Honky Tonk District that adjoined Fort Howe had suffered some collateral damage during the recent attack, the HTD—as the troops referred to it—was not only resilient but still open twenty-five hours a day. And as Doc slipped out through the west gate, the two-block-deep strip of tawdry bars, strip joints, and flophouses took her in.

The HTD was her real home in many respects, since none of the bartenders, thieves, or hookers who lived there thought less of Cassidy because she was a crab addict. On the contrary, they understood her in a way that her military buddies couldn’t. And that granted Doc a sort of sleazy legitimacy her fellow rangers couldn’t hope for and weren’t seeking.

Still, Cassidy liked the other members of her squad well enough, even if they were absurdly easy to manipulate. Something that made her feel slightly guilty but a bit smug, too. Because, at the end of the day, it was each person’s responsibility to look out for themselves.

And in her case that meant feeding Colonel Vanderspool a steady stream of information in return for relative freedom and a steady supply of crab. And that was a delicate task. Because if she said too much, her squad mates might find out, and if she said too little, Vanderspool would send her to a work camp.

“Hey, hottie, you need some company?” a soldier inquired hopefully, as Doc made her way past the sidewalk table where he and his buddies were seated.

“I’ll let you know if I get that desperate,” the medic said as she cleared the bar and took a right. She could hear the soldiers laughing as she followed a narrow passageway back between two buildings. It reeked of urine, was littered with empties, and decorated with graffiti.

The walkway emptied into a rather pleasant courtyard that fronted a restaurant called The Gourmand. The establishment was way too expensive for enlisted people, which was one of the reasons Vanderspool chose to eat there. That and the fact that his mistress had an apartment on the second floor.

So Cassidy weaved between linen-covered tables to the restaurant’s south wall, climbed a set of stairs to the second floor, and followed a wraparound balcony to the front of the building, just as she had on prior occasions. Vanderspool was sitting on a wicker chair near a pair of glass doors. They were open to the apartment beyond, and the faint strains of classical music could be heard from within.

Like his guest, the officer was dressed in civvies. His outfit consisted of a yellow silk shirt, nicely tailored brown slacks, and a pair of basket weave slip-ons. He held a glass of red wine in his right hand and there was a bottle at his elbow. He nodded formally. “There you are, my dear … right on time. Punctuality is a military virtue, isn’t it? And it has to be since lives are often at stake. Please sit down. Would you care for a glass of wine?”

“No, sir. Thank you,” Cassidy replied politely, as she took a seat.

Vanderspool winked knowingly. “It can’t compare to ten milligrams of crab, I suppose… . Although it’s a helluva lot cheaper!”

Doc forced a smile. “Yes, sir.”

“So,” Vanderspool said reflectively, as he took a sip of wine. “What can you tell me about the unbelievable fiasco that took place the day before yesterday?”

Cassidy knew the officer was referring to the review—and the manner in which Lieutenant Quigby had been publicly humiliated. “Tell you, sir?” she inquired innocently. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Don’t be coy,” Vanderspool said sternly. “You aren’t very good at it—and it pisses me off. We had the water from Quigby’s suit analyzed. It was laced with a couple of powerful drugs, plus a fast-acting laxative. The lieutenant thinks you were out to get him—but I’m betting on Findlay or one of his men.”

Doc’s first instinct was to blame Tychus, since that was the path of least resistance, but on second thought she realized how stupid such a course might be. Because if the colonel had one spy, he could have two, and the whole squad knew she was responsible. So she looked Vanderspool in the eye and told the truth. “Lieutenant Quigby is correct, sir … I was responsible.”

Vanderspool was so surprised by the admission that he sloshed wine onto the tablecloth as he set the glass down. “You?” he demanded. “But why?”

“Two reasons,” Cassidy answered calmly. “First, I really detest the little bastard. And, no offense, sir, but some officers behave like assholes just for the fun of it.

“Second, these guys have a very tight relationship. I’m in, but jerking Quigby around solidified my position. Now they really trust me. Wouldn’t you say that’s important, sir?”

A full five seconds of silence passed. During that time the medic saw a number of expressions come and go on Vanderspool’s face, including anger, calculation, and a grudging smile. “I have to give you credit,” the officer said. “You are a scheming bitch. No offense intended,” he added sarcastically.

Doc felt a sense of relief. “Thank you, sir. No offense taken.”

“So, how is it going?”

“It’s going well, sir. Once I leave here I’ll join the rest of the squad at Three Fingered Jack’s down the street. That’s where they like to hang out.”

Vanderspool nodded. “Good. Now, one last thing before you go … I don’t give a damn about Lieutenant Quigby, but I do care about his father, the general, and your scheme made all three of us look bad. I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. So here’s a piece of advice: Don’t ever do something like that again.”

Doc heard a floorboard creak and began to turn but it was too late. Two flat-eyed soldiers, both in civilian attire, stood directly behind her. One jerked the medic out of her chair and put a full nelson on her as the other came around and positioned himself in front of her. “Give her three shots,” Vanderspool said grimly. “But leave her face alone.”

Cassidy was tough, or believed that she was, but after three successive blows to the stomach she fell to her knees and threw up. Some of the vomit oozed down between the floorboards and fell on the table below.

Doc heard a woman’s voice from somewhere inside the apartment. “Javier? I’m tired of waiting.”

Vanderspool rose. His voice was hard. “Take her out to the street. That’s where trash belongs.”

Cassidy held up a hand to stall the marines off, made use of the bottom part of the tablecloth to wipe her mouth, and struggled to her feet. Then, having executed a near perfect about-face, she left.

When Cassidy arrived at Three Fingered Jack’s she was surprised to see that her normally high-spirited squad mates were sitting around slumped in their chairs. And if his hang-dog expression was any guide, Raynor was the most upset of all. Feek was standing on the bench next to Raynor, apparently offering words of comfort. “What’s going on?” Doc inquired, as she took a seat next to Harnack.

“This guy Tom Omer … one of Jim’s good friends from home,” Harnack said soberly. “We all shipped out together from Shiloh. Well, Tom got tore up pretty bad during the fight at Firebase Zulu. He lost one of his lungs and one of his arms. Anyway, we just got the news that Tom died. The wounds were too much for him.”

Harnack looked toward Raynor and back. Cassidy saw that the others were listening, too. “Jim was leading our squad the day Tom was hit so he feels like it was his fault. But that’s bullshit. I was there and it was bad luck. Nothing more.”

“That’s true,” Kydd chimed in. “There wasn’t anything Jim could have done.”

“They’re right,” Doc said, as she looked at Raynor. “I’ve seen a lot of people die in this war, and most of the time there isn’t any rhyme or reason to it.”

Raynor looked up from the tabletop. There was a haunted look in his eyes. “His parents are going to be devastated, and it’s all my fault. What if I’d stayed home? What if I was there right now? Maybe Tom would be alive.”

“Yeah,” Zander put in, “and maybe the rest of us would be dead. Because if you hadn’t been there, somebody else would have been in charge and who knows how they would have handled the situation.”

“Exactly,” Kydd agreed, as Tychus arrived with a fresh bottle of Scotty Bolger’s. “All I know is that you did a lot better job than I could have. Tom would say the same.”

“This is for Tom Omer,” Tychus rumbled, as he refilled Raynor’s glass. “I didn’t know him, but you say he was a good soldier, and that’s good enough for me. Because you’re the real deal, so Omer’s the real deal, and that’s all we need to know. Now, pick up that glass, and let’s drink a toast … to Tom Omer, who went to war, and did the best he could. We won’t forget him.”

It was the longest speech, maybe the only speech, Raynor had ever heard Tychus give. And unlike so much of what the older man normally had to say, there hadn’t been a trace of sarcasm, condescension, or irony. The words couldn’t make the pain go away, nothing could accomplish that, but they were the source of some much-needed comfort. It was a side of Tychus Raynor hadn’t seen before and one that he welcomed.

“Hear, hear,” Feek said, as he raised a glass. “Here’s to Tom Omer.”

The words echoed around the table, and as Cassidy raised her glass, she felt like what she was: a fake.

The sun had barely broken company with the eastern horizon as the old truck came to a screeching stop next to the heavily guarded gate, and Hiram Feek jumped to the ground. It was a long drop for someone of his stature, but he was used to that, and he absorbed the shock with bent knees.

Then, having waved good-bye to the elderly driver, Feek hurried across the street to the west gate, where his retinas were scanned and the machine whirred as it ate his Priority One Civilian Pass and spit it back out again.

Seconds later the technician was inside Fort Howe, where he made straight for the barracks in which the first squad, STM platoon, 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion was quartered. Though not a member of the outfit himself, Feek felt a natural bond with the men and women who were slated to wear his creations. And the squad had adopted Feek as one of their own. Like them, he had left his family behind in order to fight—in his own way—for the cause. But right now, he had even more important matters to attend to.

Having arrived in front of the building, Feek pulled the door open, pounded up a flight of stairs, and went looking for Raynor. Because even though Tychus was bigger and had more stripes on his arms, Raynor was generally the man with a plan. And given the kind of trouble Zander and Ward had gotten themselves into, it was going to take one helluva plan to get them out.

Raynor was dreaming a good dream when someone shook his shoulder. He opened his eyes, saw Feek, and closed them again. “Go away… . We have two days off and I plan to spend both of them in bed.”

“You can’t,” Feek insisted. “Zander and Ward are in trouble. You need to get them out.”

Raynor swore, sat up, and swung his feet over onto the cold floor. It was early, and the entire platoon had the weekend off, so just about everyone was still in bed. Except for Zander and Ward, that is. Their racks were empty and neat enough to pass an inspection. Raynor yawned. “Where are they? In the brig?”

“No,” Feek replied urgently. “They’re almost twenty miles northwest of here, unless the bandits took them somewhere else, and I wouldn’t know—”

“Wait—bandits?” Raynor demanded incredulously, suddenly alert. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“It all started a couple of weeks ago,” Feek explained patiently. “Suddenly Zander had lots of money. I asked him where it came from, but he wouldn’t say.”

Raynor knew the source but saw no reason to explain. He trusted Feek, but the fewer people who knew about the theft the better. “So?” he asked. “Where do the bandits come in?”

“Zander bought a lot of food with the money and hired a truck,” Feek responded.

Raynor groaned and held up a hand. “Don’t tell me… . Let me guess. He loaded the food onto the truck and headed for some refugee camp or other.”

“That’s right,” Feek agreed. “Ward and I agreed to go with him and provide security in return for a couple of beers. But somewhere along the line word of the shipment must have leaked out— because we were only about halfway there when we ran into a Confederate checkpoint—”

“—except it wasn’t a Confederate checkpoint,” Raynor finished for him. “It was a roadblock put in place by the bandits.”

“Right again,” Feek conceded. “So they took all of the food, plus Zander and Ward. I managed to slip away.” He indicated his small stature. “I had to hitchhike back—but I came as quickly as I could.”

Raynor felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach. “Thanks, Hiram.” He rubbed his eyes and held his hand there for a few seconds, deep in thought. Finally he lifted his head. “Okay, roust Harnack, Kydd, and Doc. But don’t bother the rest of the platoon. Understood?”

Feek nodded. “What about Tychus?”

“I’ll take care of Tychus.”

“How?” Feek asked. “I mean, no offense, Jim,” he added, “but Tychus isn’t known for random acts of philanthropy.”

“These people are bandits, right? So they have loot,” Raynor responded. “That’ll get his attention. Plus, don’t underestimate Tychus. He may look hard—but he has a heart of gold.”

When Feek smiled, his mustache went up and sideways at the same time. “And a liver of gold, lungs of gold, and kidneys of gold,” he responded.

Raynor forced a chuckle. “Yeah, something like that… .” He patted Feek on the shoulder approvingly. “We’re going to need a vehicle.”

Feek nodded. He had the truck that was used to ferry the Thunderstrike armor around and run errands. “I’ll supply that.”

“Good,” Raynor said. “It’s nice to know that we won’t have to steal one.”

The better part of an hour was required to get everyone up and off base where Feek was waiting to pick them up. The civilian was driving, Doc was riding shotgun, and Tychus, Raynor, Harnack, and Kydd were sitting in the back of the truck, sorting through the weapons that Feek had hidden there prior to leaving base. They had absolutely no idea where their friends were being held. But Raynor had a plan.

The single cargo light was on, but most of the illumination was coming in through the open roof vent. “This is farm country for the most part,” Raynor said, shifting position so Harnack, Kydd, and Tychus could see him, “and I know something about farming. This area might look empty, like nobody’s around, but believe me, there are eyes everywhere. So the locals know where the bandits are, and are either afraid of reprisals, or related to them! So they aren’t going to talk. Not to the authorities, anyway. But if we can find the right person and make it worth their while, we might get a lead.”

“Or we could take someone aside, kick his ass, and choke the location out of him,” Harnack suggested hopefully.

“We’ll use that as the backup plan,” Raynor replied agreeably. “I told Feek to stop in a little town called Finner’s Crossing. Odds are they have a pub there—that seems like a good place to start.”

“And have a beer,” Tychus put in. The truth was that he figured both Zander and Ward were dead. But he wasn’t about to say that to Raynor, especially in light of Omer’s recent death. Plus, it was to his benefit to hold the squad together. “A few brews and this trip will actually seem worthwhile.”

“Ignore Sergeant Sunshine,” Raynor advised as he shifted his gaze from Harnack to Kydd. “Kidnappings have been common around here ever since the wars started and the economy tanked. Some people will make money any way they can. Odds are the bandits are hoping that someone will come along and pay a price for our friends.”

“Our idiots is more like it,” Tychus said sourly. “You give them more money than any private has a right to and what do they do with it? They buy food and then give it away! Now that’s stupid.”

“Getting kidnapped sucks,” Kydd mused aloud. “Look where it got me: I got drugged by some hooker and now I’m stuck with you jerk weeds for God knows how long.”

A palpable silence filled the truck as everyone turned to look at the blank-faced sniper. Several seconds passed before Kydd erupted into boisterous laughter, and the rest of the crew followed suit.

Tychus shook his head in wonderment. “Look at Kydd, talkin’ like he’s one of us grunts and not some frou frou Old Family prick. The military’s done you good, boy.”

The small door that provided access to the cargo compartment from the cab was open, so Doc had been able to listen in. And she knew that if her squad mates had large sums of money there had to be a reason. That was the sort of information Vanderspool would want to know about.

It was too early in the day for a dose of crab, especially if some sort of fight was in the offing, but the stimpack was legal, and would help tide her over. The device made a gentle hissing sound as she pressed it against the back of her neck.

NEAR THE TOWN OF FINNER’S CROSSING, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

Finner’s Crossing was five miles short of the spot where the food shipment had been hijacked. Rather than roll into the center of town where the vehicle would almost certainly attract attention, Raynor told Feek to park on the outskirts of the community next to a fueling station.

Then, after a good deal of argument from Harnack, it was agreed that Raynor and Tychus would walk into town while the rest stayed back to guard the truck. “We’ll bring you something to eat,” Raynor promised. “And remember, two of you should be awake at all times. That includes you, Hank.”

That request provoked more complaints, and Raynor was in the process of explaining why his instructions were necessary when Tychus cut the conversation short by slamming the door and walking away.

The main road led the men past simple, wood frame houses that were equipped with solar-collecting roof tiles and satellite dishes. The dishes weren’t operational, of course, not since the battles in space had begun, but might become functional again someday.

“Here’s what we’re fighting for,” Raynor observed. “Neighborhoods like this one.”

Tychus directed a sidelong glance his way. “You’re kidding, right? We’re not fighting for the people who live in these houses, we’re fighting for the people who run the government, and believe me, there’s a big difference.”

They passed a few isolated stores and came across what was obviously the town’s main street. It was a sad-looking affair that consisted of oneand two-story commercial buildings, many of which were in desperate need of paint. “No, these people are the problem,” Tychus continued, “because they choose to believe all the lies, and allow themselves to be victimized.”

Raynor frowned. “Maybe some of them are like that—but plenty aren’t. Take my parents. They know the government isn’t perfect, but what’s the alternative? The Kel-Morians? I don’t think so.”

“Nor do I,” Tychus replied, peering left, then right, down the street. “Which is why I want to put a shitload of money aside, find a comfortable hole, and crawl inside. Which way?”

“I’m guessing left,” Raynor replied.

“Left it is,” Tychus replied, and turned in that direction.

They walked half a block before Tychus broke the silence. “What a dump.”

Raynor, who still felt homesick from time to time, frowned. “Spoken like someone from a big city,” he said neutrally.

“No,” Tychus replied. “Spoken like someone from a crummy little nowhere dump. A place where truckers stopped to take a leak, where the smartest person in town was the waitress in Pappy’s Café, and each day felt like it was a year long.”

As they approached Hurley’s Bar, Raynor realized that these were the only details Tychus had ever shared about his past. They’d gotten closer, but Raynor felt as though he knew nothing about Tychus. He wondered if he’d ever really know him, or whether it even mattered.

The tavern was housed in a low one-story building with plenty of empty parking places out front. Once inside, Raynor found himself in an atmosphere so familiar he might have been back home. A bar backed by what was clearly a kitchen occupied one corner of the large space. A row of sturdy posts supported the low, smoke-stained ceiling, and four-person booths lined the outer walls. A man who might have been a truck driver was seated at one of the mismatched tables at the center of the room, the bartender was drying glasses, and an elderly dog came out to greet them.

Raynor paused to give the animal a pat on the head before following Tychus over to the bar. The man standing behind it had a shaved head, bushy eyebrows, and the fist-flattened nose of an amateur prize fighter. Pictures of him could be seen here and there on the walls. Most were of him standing in some ring or other, bloodied fists raised in victory. Hurley perhaps? Yes, Raynor thought so.

The proprietor ran an eye over Tychus as if sizing him up before nodding politely. “Good afternoon, gents. What’ll it be?”

“A couple of beers,” Tychus responded.

“Coming up,” the bartender replied, as he removed two mugs from the shelf over his head. “Would you like anything else? Something to eat, maybe?”

“Yes, we would,” Raynor replied genially. “We’ll take a look at your menu in a minute… . But first maybe you can help us out with some information. Some friends of ours were passing through the area recently, and they haven’t come back. We’d like to find them. Any idea of who we might talk to? Or where we could look?”

Raynor saw the man’s eyes cloud over as some suds ran down the side of the second mug. “Sorry to hear about your friends, mister… . But these are troubled times. People shouldn’t travel at night. That’ll be five credits.”

“I didn’t say they were traveling at night,” Raynor said evenly, as he slipped some coins into the other man’s hand. “But they were. We aren’t asking you to name names. We’re justtoday announced an exciting new looking for some information, that’s all. Keep the change.”

Hurley opened his hand to see two large coins. “Why don’t you gents have a seat at one of the tables?” the proprietor suggested. “I’ll bring a menu.”

“How expensive was my beer?” Tychus asked as they went to sit down.

“Fifty credits,” Raynor replied.

“That makes a hundred altogether,” Tychus observed. “These beers had better be good. Sucker.”

Raynor and Tychus ordered enough food to feed themselves, Doc, Kydd, Harnack, and Feek. Then, with take-out bags in hand, they left. It wasn’t until they were back in the truck, passing out thick sandwiches, that Raynor found the hand-drawn map. He grinned and gave it to Tychus. “Don’t spill anything on my hundred-credit map… . How’s your lunch?”