Heaven's Devils

CHAPTER TWENTY

The hand-dug pit was located in the middle of the barn, where it wouldn’t be spotted from the air, and was sheltered from both sun and rain. Silas Trask, the man who made decisions for the gang, called it “the tank.” As in “storage tank,” because that was where he kept the women he doled out to his men, and captives that someone might be willing to pay for.

Half a dozen people occupied the miserable hole at the moment. That included the soldiers, who had been held for nearly two days, an elderly couple, and two terrified teenage girls—both of whom were slated to serve as entertainment the next time the bandits decided to party.

All of them stood in six inches of muddy ground water and stared upward as a bright light appeared over their heads. “Hey, you two scumbags,” a male voice called out, “you’re up.”

There was a splash as a ladder came sliding down to hit the bottom of the tank. Zander went up first, closely followed by Ward, as the other captives watched from below. It was hard to know what to hope for. The tank was horrible—but so were the men above. And once summoned there was no way to know what would happen to them next. Some people were returned to the tank and some were never seen again. Were they free, having been ransomed? Or were they dead? Zander prayed under his breath.

Heavily armed bandits were waiting. One of them pushed Zander toward the tractor-size door. The soldier could see that it was evening. “Get moving,” the man said, and pushed again.

As he stumbled forward, Zander’s eyes darted from side to side, searching for anything that might help. He was shorter than his captors, but he was strong, and all he needed was some sort of weapon. A shovel, a pitchfork, anything would do. But nothing of the sort was within reach as the two men were pushed, shoved, and kicked into the barnyard beyond. Two of the planet’s moons were still up and arcing across the velvety blue sky.

The soldiers were marched across an open area to a modest farmhouse that was lit from within. That was something of a surprise to Zander, since he would have expected the bandits to black it out, but maybe they wanted the place to look normal.

Three wooden steps led up to the front door. It was already open and gave access to a brightly lit but mostly empty interior. Part of the ceiling had been damaged by a leaky roof, which explained why the bandits were living in the vehicle shed instead.

Trask, a dark-haired man with flashing white teeth and a taste for gaudy, clearly stolen jewelry, stood waiting for them. He scowled as the captives entered the room. “Look at that! Muddy footprints on my clean floor… . Have you no manners?”

Zander rolled his eyes and glanced over at Ward, who was quietly looking at his feet. Zander turned back toward Trask just in time to receive a swift knee to the groin. He doubled over, groaning, but was pulled back to a standing position by the thugs. “No, I guess you don’t.” Trask said patronizingly. “Please, gentlemen, have a seat.”

Trask indicated two chairs that were positioned in the middle of the brightly lit living room, which, thanks to the shattered windows, was open to the outside. Zander didn’t want to comply, not if Trask wanted him to, but was forced to step forward when a gun barrel jabbed him from behind. Ward was equally recalcitrant, but submitted with less of a struggle because he could see the odds were stacked against them. He was far from cowed, however, as was apparent from both his facial expression, and the set of his shoulders.

The chairs were positioned directly in front of the windows and securely fastened to the floor. Trask came around to stand directly in front of the two men as they were tied in place. “You want to hear something funny?” he inquired cheerfully. “Two men came looking for you! It appears your stupidity is contagious. They paid one hundred credits for a map that will lead them here. That means they have money. My money. Or it will be soon.” And with that Trask chuckled contentedly as he and his men left the house.

“The bastard is using us for bait,” Ward rumbled. “When the guys move in on the house they’ll run into an ambush.”

“Yeah,” Zander said thoughtfully. “That’s the plan anyway, but our buddies aren’t stupid.”

“Jim isn’t,” Ward agreed soberly, “but what about Tychus and Hank? They’ll just come barreling in here without a second thought.”

“Or a first.” Both men let out a chuckle, which faded into contemplative silence.

“I’m sorry I got you into this mess,” Zander said regretfully.

Ward shrugged. “It don’t make much difference, Max. I’m not afraid to die.”

“I just … I feel terrible is all. This was my idea and I screwed up. If we would’ve made it, we could’ve helped so many people, but … I shouldn’t have brought you into this.”

“Max, I’m ready anytime. Those Kel-Morian bastards killed my entire family—and I’ve been waitin’ to get up there with my wife and kids. Only thing is, I was plannin’ on taking a lot more of those sons of bitches with me. A lot more.” He paused. “It’s bad enough to see a soldier cut down by flying shrapnel. But when it’s your daughter, and she bleeds out in your arms, you can’t forget. That’s what I see when I close my eyes, Max… . I see Dara looking up at me with those big brown eyes. ‘Am I going to be okay, Daddy?’ That’s what she asked me, and I said, ‘yes.’ So that’s why I want to live for a while longer. So I can kill as many of those murderers as I can.”

“It ain’t over till it’s over,” Zander replied, in an attempt to cheer the other man up. “So it’s the Kel-Morians who oughtta be worried!”

The two men were silent for several minutes as they struggled with their bonds, trying to loosen them without success. Because of the thick cloud cover, evening had faded into complete darkness, and from under the bright lights of the living room, nothing could be seen outside. Which only added to the feeling of being on display.

“You know,” Ward said, finally interrupting the sustained silence. “It was my fault… .”

“How so?”

“It was about six months ago, back on Tyrador VIII,” Ward replied. “My wife said we should head out into the country, get away from the refinery. But I said, ‘No, the KMs’ll never come here.’ That’s what I said. And then they came! I’m the one who should have died. You understand, Max? I’m the one.”

“Connor, I’m so sorry. It was bad luck, that’s all. But hey, we all make mistakes. I know I have. All you can do is—”

Suddenly, a loud crash was heard, and Hiram Feek fell through the roof.

Moments before Feek fell through the roof, Raynor was lying next to a freshly deceased sentry about a hundred yards away, calculating his next move. Though not as powerful as the .50 caliber weapon Kydd normally carried, the lighter weapon Feek had provided from a surprisingly large stash of so-called test weapons was just as effective, and equipped with a silencer.

Within seconds, Kydd neutralized enough sentries to allow Raynor to close in on the farmhouse and catch a glimpse of the way his friends had been positioned in the brightly lit living room. Once he figured out what the bandits expected him and his friends to do, he called Feek in for his jump.

And it was a thing of beauty! From liftoff to landing the textbook-perfect arc brought Feek and his armor crashing down through the farmhouse’s roof and an upstairs bedroom to land only a few feet from the hostages.

The problem was, his right boot went through a couple of floorboards, leaving Feek in an awkward position. Wood splintered as Feek jerked his foot out, and the rifle made a clattering noise as he shot the lights out. The hostages were safe.

Then, just before the real battle began, there was a brief opportunity for Ward to speak. “Nice of you to drop in, Feek—what the hell took you so long?”

Tychus liked a good fight, especially when there was the prospect of profit and he knew the battle would go his way. As he and Harnack readied their weapons, there was a sudden crash, and the bandits, who had lost control of the hostages, came rushing out of various buildings, firing their weapons wildly.

The two marines weren’t wearing armor, and didn’t need to, as the green blobs appeared on their HUDs and both men opened fire with carefully controlled bursts. Their assault weapons chattered, and blobs stumbled and fell, as Doc slipped into the barn. An M-1 bag was slung over her shoulder, and the pistol she always carried into battle was in her hand.

Cassidy paused in a shadow. That was when Trask turned away from the slaughter taking place out front and cut diagonally across the floor toward the side door. He was holding a needle-gun, and gold jewelry winked as he passed under a dangling glow strip.

Doc brought the pistol up in the approved two-handed grip, took careful aim, and shot Trask in the head. He staggered, tripped, and fell headfirst into the pit.

She heard girlish screams, followed by a sudden commotion down in the hole, and spotted a ladder. Then, having lowered it into place, she was there to help the hollow-eyed prisoners escape from the tank.

“You’re an angel,” the older woman said gratefully, as Doc gave her a hand.

Cassidy smiled. “I’m a lot of things, ma’am,” she said grimly, “but an angel isn’t one of them.”

***

Once all the shooting was over, and the squad had complete control of the farm, they came together in the open space in front of the barn. “Damn,” Harnack said as he looked around. “Are we good, or what?”

“Good for nothing,” Zander said, straight-faced. “It would have been nice if you had arrived a bit earlier.”

“And it would be nice if you would spend your money on booze and hookers,” Tychus put in as he emerged from the barn. “And not necessarily in that order.” Having stripped Trask of his jewelry, he was trying to force a garish-looking ring onto the little finger of his left hand.

“Which raises an important topic,” Kydd interjected. “It seems to me that the people who got rescued should buy the beer.”

“Count on it,” Ward said with a smile. “The first round is on Zander.”

“Good,” Tychus said, “because I happen to know of a bar that would benefit from our business.”

Raynor groaned. “Not Hurley’s …”

Tychus grinned wolfishly. “Of course Hurley’s! We need a refund on those overpriced sandwiches.”

“Gimme some!” Harnack said, as he raised his hand.

The high-fives generated a series of slapping sounds.

Doc was the last person to join in the celebration.

FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

Four days had passed since the raid on the farmhouse, the squad was back at Fort Howe, and Doc was pissed. She and the rest of the squad had been training hard, and were in the middle of a hard-earned break when a message arrived ordering her to report to the command center. That was definitely not in keeping with the reporting process that she and Vanderspool had agreed on.

So having been told to report to Vanderspool’s office, Cassidy blew through the waiting room and entered in a huff. The door slammed behind her as she stomped across the room. Vanderspool, who had been busy stuffing printouts into a briefcase, looked up in surprise as a very angry medic came forward to lean on his desk. “What the hell are you trying to do?” she demanded. “Get me killed? If Tychus figures out I’ve been ratting him out he’ll squash me like a bug—”

Vanderspool was a desk jockey, but hadn’t always been one, and Doc was surprised by the speed with which his right hand shot out to grab a fistful of shirt. A fancy clock, two vidsnaps, and a brass shell casing filled with writing implements went flying as he dragged her across the surface of the desk until her nose was only inches from his. “You will address me as ‘sir’ … and as for having you killed, that could happen today! Do you scan me, bitch?”

Doc saw the anger in his dark eyes and knew she’d gone too far. That was one of the problems associated with using crab. Any time she had too much or too little of the drug, it affected her judgment. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Vanderspool pushed her away. “That’s better… . I don’t have time to play meet-the-drug-whore in the HTD today… . General Thane wants me to fly to Boro Airbase for a strategy session. But before I go I want a report on Sergeant Findlay and his group of misfits.

“Civilian authorities claim that a man matching his description entered a pub called Hurley’s the day before yesterday, challenged the owner to a fistfight, and nearly killed him. Plus, if what they say is true, other soldiers were present as well … one of whom was described as being a female with short hair and a pretty face. Sound familiar?”

Cassidy stood with her head bowed, looking down at the mess on the floor. She began by saying, “Yes, sir,” in a subdued voice, and went on to tell the story as she knew it, starting with being awoken by Feek.

Vanderspool listened intently as Doc described the trip to Finner’s Crossing, what she had overheard regarding large quantities of money, the map, the attack on the farm, the manner in which the hostages had been freed, and the subsequent delivery of Zander’s food shipment to a refugee camp nearby. Vanderspool’s blood was boiling. All his suspicions were confirmed—the whole lot of them were worthless, pitiful crooks. His temples throbbed and his jaw tightened as Cassidy continued her narrative.

“Then, on the way back to base, Tychus, I mean Findlay, insisted that we stop at Hurley’s Bar, because Hurley was the one who gave Raynor the map and ratted us out.” She shrugged. “You know how Findlay is. Hurley was good with his hands—but not good enough. In fact, if it weren’t for Lance Corporal Raynor pulling Findlay off him, the bastard might be dead.”

“But they say you gave him first aid,” Vanderspool said.

“That’s what I do,” Cassidy said off-handedly.

“That’s one of the things you do,” Vanderspool countered tightly. “You are dismissed.”

Doc looked up. Her surprise was obvious. “Dismissed?”

“Yes,” Vanderspool responded. “What did you expect? A medal?”

“You aren’t going to throw us all in the stockade?”

“No,” Vanderspool replied. “I told you I’m on my way to a meeting. Now get the hell out of my office!”

Doc came to attention, did an about-face, and left.

Vanderspool slammed his hands down on his desk. So he’d been right all along… . Findlay and his cronies had stolen the truck, sold its contents to the highest bidder, and split the money. His money.

Vanderspool stalked into his lavatory and clutched the sides of the sink. Leaning in toward the mirror, his jaw clenched, the colonel peered intently at his reflection. Those goddamn thieving bastards, he thought. I’m going to kill those sons of bitches. I knew it! Furious, he smashed his fist into the mirror. It shattered into a thousand pieces, shards of glass clattered as they fell, and Vanderspool looked at his knuckles. His skin was ragged.

The colonel’s mind was flashing with rage, but he needed to focus. He wanted to kill them, brutally, mercilessly—or worse, turn their brains to mush so he could see their smiling, worshipful faces as they were forced to do his bidding.

But that would have to wait. As infuriating as it was, he needed them—the STM platoon were the only soldiers who had undergone the weeks of training required to use the new hardskins, and there was no one else who could execute the strategic plan he was about to present at the conference. It would be his shining moment, and one that could not be tarnished—by anyone, not even them.

With a dropship waiting for him, Vanderspool left for the airstrip. The corporal, who had no idea what was going on, was left to clean up the mess on the floor.