Heaven's Devils

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

The sky was gunmetal gray, it was unseasonably cold, and the troops were wearing water-slicked ponchos as they crossed the rain-lashed grinder. Puddles had formed in the low spots and produced tiny geysers each time a droplet of water fell into them.

The first thing that members of the STM platoon noticed as Tychus Findlay led them into the base theater was the fact that a squad of heavily armed MPs was patrolling the perimeter of the building. Harnack, who was walking next to Raynor, produced a low whistle. “What’s with all the security?”

Raynor shrugged. “Beats me … maybe they know the briefing’ll be so boring they’ll need guards to keep us in there.”

“Or maybe something important is in the wind,” Harnack theorized. “I’d like to fry me some more Kel-Morians.”

“It’s a good plan,” Raynor said dryly, “so long as they don’t fry you.”

Harnack might have replied, but the two men were inside the lobby by then, and being herded into the auditorium beyond. It was large enough to hold hundreds of people, so every member of the thirty-five-person platoon got a seat in the first row.

It took a few minutes to get everyone settled in, but once they were, Colonel Vanderspool appeared from the wings and marched to the center of the stage. Then, looking down at Tychus, he said, “Sergeant, is everyone accounted for?”

The officer was wearing a lip mic and his voice boomed over the theater’s sound system. Had Tychus known that Doc’s effort to humiliate Lieutenant Quigby would cause the officer to be transferred, thereby leaving him in charge of the platoon, he would have put a stop to the harassment. Because the last thing Tychus wanted was to be in charge of anything other than a large bank account. But Quigby was gone and there was a shortage of line officers, which meant he’d have to fill the slot until a replacement came in. So all he could do was look up at Vanderspool and say, “Yes, sir. All present, sir.”

“Excellent,” Vanderspool responded as a carefully crafted smile appeared on his handsome face. “I have some very good news for the STM platoon. After weeks of training, you have a mission! And not just any mission. This is the sort of outing we had in mind when those CMC-230 suits were issued to you.

“In fact, if this effort goes the way we hope it will, our goal is to use you and your new hardskins to help capture the Kel-Morian strategic resources repository in the city of Polk’s Pride. It’s a critical objective—one that we are certain will decide the outcome of the war on Turaxis II.” His smile broadened even more as he swept his gaze across the line of soldiers. “How would you like to be the Confederacy’s most celebrated war heroes?”

The reaction from the soldiers was glum in spite of Vanderspool’s enthusiastic pitch, and a few whispers were exchanged. “Ah, yes,” Vanderspool continued cheerfully. “Some of you may know that we have attempted to cross the Paddick River and attack the repository before. Unfortunately, we failed. But trust me—we will try again, and we will succeed. You have my word.

“But, before we get started with Polk’s Pride, let’s take a look at the immediate objective.” As the lights went down and a holo appeared on the stage, Vanderspool moved to one side.

“The image you’re looking at was captured by an orbiting battlecruiser,” Vanderspool explained. “The pictures they took were computer enhanced and combined to create the map you see on the screen.”

As Raynor studied the image, he saw what he took to be three hills, each crowned with a fortification. Between them, and surrounded by what appeared to be a plascrete barrier, was what looked like a military camp. Six long, narrow buildings could be seen side by side. Two more were set off from the others, and a command center with a comsat station was located next to several supply depots and a water tower. Access roads wound here and there, dotted with blister-shaped bunkers that bracketed all of the main entry points.

“What you’re looking at is a prisoner of war camp,” Vanderspool informed them gravely. “It’s called Kel-Morian Internment Camp-36, or KIC-36, and more than four hundred of our brave soldiers and pilots are being held there. And not just held, but tortured, and in some cases murdered. But there’s no need for me to describe what goes on inside the camp, because we are about to have the privilege of hearing about it firsthand from one of the few people to successfully escape, a young pilot who proves that anything is possible.” He stepped back and clapped for several seconds before extending a hand toward the approaching figure, a sympathetic smile on his face. The battalion offered a polite round of applause.

Aided by a cane and accompanied by a medic, a frail-looking figure shambled out to join Vanderspool. She looked like a skeleton over which parchmentlike skin had been stretched. “This is Captain Clair Hobarth,” Vanderspool said soberly. “Her dropship was shot down; she was captured and taken to KIC-36, where she was held for three months before she managed to escape. The two prisoners who tried to flee with her weren’t so lucky. I was opposed to her coming, but she insisted, because she regards the men and women she left behind as brothers and sisters. Captain Hobarth?”

Hobarth’s voice was hoarse, but thanks to the mic she was wearing, her words could be heard. “Good morning … thank you all for what you have already accomplished—and will accomplish on behalf of the prisoners of KIC-36.” She drew a slow, deep breath. “I’m not here to tell you a sob story about the months I spent there. I’m here to tell you how to attack the camp, kill the animals who run it, and rescue our people.”

Somebody started to clap, more fervently this time, and Raynor joined in. Here, after the attack on Fort Howe and the looting of the armory, was what he’d been waiting for: something he could believe in. “Thank you,” Hobarth said humbly, as she produced a laser pointer, and a red dot began to roam the 3-D image. Each item it passed grew larger and began to rotate, so that the audience could view it from various angles.

“By now you’ve noticed these hills.” she said. “They’re all about the same height and topped with missile turrets, defensive guns, and pop-up turrets. And, because there are three of them, anyone who tries to attack the camp will enter a crossfire.

“That’s bad,” Hobarth croaked, “but making the situation even worse is the fact that some of these weapons could be depressed to fire on the camp itself. And believe me, the camp’s overseer, the man we called ‘Brucker the Butcher,’ wouldn’t hesitate to do so.”

Hobarth paused at that point as if to let the information sink in before continuing the briefing. “So, if you’re going to rescue our people, you’ve got to neutralize the hilltop fortifications first… . And that’s where your special capabilities come into play.”

Hobarth paused at that point, as if to summon more energy, before continuing on. “Here’s how it’s going to work,” she continued. “Dropships will fly you over the site. You’ll jump, land on all three hills at the same time, and destroy the weapons installations there. At that point you will make your way downhill, engage the guards, and take control.”

Raynor watched the red dot draw a line around the camp. “Having blown holes in the charged shock wall, you’ll evacuate the POWs to the landing pad located here.” As the red dot came into contact with it, the 3-D image grew larger and began to rotate. “By that time other members of your battalion will have landed to provide you with support and a succession of dropships will arrive to evac the POWs. A squadron of Avengers will be on hand to keep the Kel-Morian Hellhounds off your backs. Oh, and one more thing… .” she added, with all the volume she could muster. “When you get back—the beer is on me!”

That announcement produced a very enthusiastic cheer, and Vanderspool smiled indulgently as he returned to center stage. “Thank you, Captain Hobarth… . That was an excellent presentation. And I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into— because the men and women of the 321st are very thirsty!”

The audience chuckled appreciatively as Hobarth raised a skeletal hand, smiled weakly, and plodded offstage.

“Okay,” Vanderspool said soberly, “that’s the overview. Obviously it will be necessary to solve a lot of tactical problems before you’ll be ready to carry out a mission of this complexity. And that’s what we’ll be working on over the next couple of weeks. In the meantime, remember this: Security is of the utmost importance. Surprise is a key element of the plan that Captain Hobarth described to you, and there are Kel-Morian sympathizers in the area. So don’t discuss the mission when you’re off duty. Not even with each other. Do you scan me?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“Good. Training will commence at 1400 hours. Acting platoon leader Findlay will be in charge. Dismissed.”

Raynor looked left, saw his friend scowl, and grinned. Tychus might not be much of a strategist, but he was a natural leader, and the perfect person to lead the raid on KIC-36. Even if he was going to bitch about the responsibility twenty-five hours a day! The next couple of weeks would be interesting.

Tychus stood up and eyed the faces around him. “So what are you people waiting for? An engraved invitation? Get your butts in gear… . We have work to do.” Preparations had begun.

Camp Crash, as it soon came to be known, was located about ten miles southwest of Fort Howe. It consisted of two hills, with an old gravel pit centered between them, and a couple of ramshackle buildings off to one side. And, because the STM platoon had been given its own dropship to train with, they could travel to and from Camp Crash in a matter of minutes.

As training day three dawned, and the platoon prepared to board the Sweetie Pie, Tychus gave them his version of a pep talk. “You people are pathetic,” he began. “The plan is to jump out of the dropship and land on your feet, not your heads! Control is the key… . So quit screwing around.”

They had heard it all before. Control was the key. But how to accomplish it? Piloting the Thunderstrike armor during carefully monitored training exercises was one thing, but controlling it under combat conditions was something else, and only a third of the platoon’s thirty-five soldiers were any good at it.

Unfortunately Raynor wasn’t one of them, and as he boarded the Sweetie Pie it felt as though ball bearings were rolling around in the pit of his stomach. He was among those who had crashed the day before, which forced Feek to stay up all night repairing Raynor’s CMC-230-XE.

The truth was that “flying” one of the hardskins took as much skill as piloting an Avenger. So how many 230-XEs could the Confederacy realistically put into service? Not very damned many, not in Raynor’s opinion anyway, because it would be too expensive and time consuming.

The dropship took off and began to climb. Raynor was nervous, but Tychus was there to comfort him. “Try not to embarrass me again,” the noncom said, as he stopped in front of Raynor. “You looked ridiculous yesterday. If you’re determined to kill yourself,” he growled, “the least you could do is wait for the actual mission, and dive headfirst into a missile turret! Then I could put you in for a medal. Your parents would like that.” He produced a cheerless, fake smile, and was gone half a second later. Having spread his own special brand of joy, Tychus moved on to speak with the next team member.

A few minutes later the ship reached 8,000 feet, turned toward the southwest, and began the first run of what promised to be a long day. Both of the side doors and the specially rigged floor hatch were open, so the dropship’s slipstream was buffeting the soldier who was acting as jump master. Protected as he was by the CMC-230-XE, Raynor barely noticed the breeze as he lined up behind a private named Pauley. She was one of the “naturals,” a person with a natural affinity for Thunderstrike armor, and showed no signs of hesitation as she fell through the hatch and disappeared.

Raynor, who had been careful to skip breakfast, felt slightly nauseous as he took the final step into nothingness. He wanted to piss, his heart was thumping in his ears, and he was short of breath. He couldn’t see the target as the CMC-230 plunged toward the surface below. Not directly, because the only way to look down would be to bend at the waist, a move that would send him spinning out of control. But he could see the gravel pit via tiny cameras built into his boots.

His target was Hill Bravo, which was a quarter mile to the right, meaning it would be necessary to steer himself in that direction. A scary prospect, since things were going well so far, and any action he took could result in disaster.

But Raynor had no choice. Not if he was to land on target. An AGR-14 gauss rifle was clamped to his chest. That left him free to deploy his arms as well as the computer-controlled vanes that were built into them. Having done so, Raynor shifted his weight. The result was a satisfying turn to the right, followed by a tight spiral, which he was forced to correct.

Then, just when Raynor was beginning to feel that he had the hang of the process, an unexpected burst of wind sent him tumbling out of control! His boots flipped up where his head should have been, an alarm sounded inside his helmet, and everything except the suit’s readouts became a blur. Raynor was a bullet now, speeding toward the planet’s surface, where a very symmetrical crater was about to appear.

Had the jet pack fired yet? No, and a good thing too, because that would propel him toward the ground at an even higher rate of speed. Raynor knew he would have to use his arms and body to correct his orientation relative to the ground or end up buried in it. The key was to act slowly and deliberately, even though every fiber of his body wanted to hurry, knowing that the ground was coming up at 160 miles per hour.

So Raynor straightened his body, deployed his arms the way he’d been taught to, and felt his head flip up. The gravel pit reappeared on his HUD. Tychus, who had seemingly been born knowing how to use the new suits, witnessed the move via one of the tracking cameras on the dropship. His voice filled Raynor’s helmet. “This ain’t no game, jerk weed! Save the tricks for someone who cares. Over.”

Raynor grinned as the jet pack fired, the CMC-230-XE began to slow, and Hill Bravo grew larger below him. Tychus thought he was screwing around! Doing tricks when he was supposed to concentrate on training. “Sorry about that, Sierra-Six… . I got carried away. Over.”

***

In spite of Raynor’s reasonably successful jump, not everyone fared so well, and by the time the Sweetie Pie returned to Fort Howe, Doc had not only been forced to treat various broken bones but deal with a couple of fatalities as well. Feek took the deaths especially hard. After all, he was responsible for the way the CMCs were designed.

Plus the hardskins would have to be replaced from Feek’s quickly dwindling supply of spares, while other suits were going to require major repairs, and almost all of them had at least minor problems.

So when the dropship put down, and UNN reporter Max Speer went out to meet it, Tychus was already in a pissy mood. “Look over here!” Speer said, as he pointed at a hovering cam bot. “That’s right… . Give me that ‘I’m gonna kick some ass’ look.”

Only it was more than a look. Speer saw something huge fill his field of vision as he was hauled off his feet. Tychus threw the other man over an armored shoulder, and Speer was subjected to a jarring ride as the platoon leader carried him toward the command center located nearby. The camera followed them.

Sentries stared in open-mouthed amazement as Tychus brushed past them, ducked under the top of the doorway, and pounded up the stairs to the point where he was forced to duck again. Then he was in the waiting room on his way to the office beyond.

A lieutenant was sitting in Vanderspool’s guest chair, and she uttered a surprised shriek as an armored giant barged into the room and dumped what she assumed to be a dead body on the base commander’s desk. “I brought you a spy, sir,” Tychus rumbled, as Speer rolled onto his feet. “Look!” Tychus said as he plucked the cam bot out of the air. “The bastard has been taking pictures of us!”

Vanderspool scowled as he came to his feet and turned to the lieutenant. “Would you excuse us? Thank you.”

Once the lieutenant was gone Vanderspool spoke again as he walked around his desk to stand beside Speer. “Have you lost your mind? This is Max Speer… . He’s a reporter for UNN—and he’s been cleared to accompany you. Max is going to show the citizens of the Confederacy what a fantastic job our soldiers are doing—isn’t that right, Max?” he said, giving the reporter a friendly pat on the back.

Speer smiled broadly, and said, “At your service, Colonel.”

Tychus looked at Speer and back again before releasing the cam bot. It pulled back in order to get a wide shot.

“No way, sir… . There isn’t enough time to teach him how to jump. Besides, we’re going to have enough to do without tracking any civilians.”

Vanderspool raised a hand. “Don’t worry, Sergeant. Speer will arrive with the second wave on one of the dropships. Now, if you would be so good as to return to your duties, I have work to do.”

Speer had fully recovered from being thrown onto the desk—he had more important things to worry about. “Hold that position for a sec,” Speer said as the cam bot took up a position directly in front of Vanderspool. The officer flashed a bright smile. Neither one of them turned to look as Tychus left the office.

After their first full week of training, Raynor offered to take Tychus into the HTD for a beer, knowing full well that the other man wasn’t likely to decline a free drink. The truth was, the two had forged a solid friendship, and Raynor had become Tychus’s unofficial second in command, even if a couple of sergeants outranked him. That didn’t mean Tychus would agree to the proposal Raynor had in mind, however—especially since the idea ran counter to one of his most cherished sayings: “Never volunteer for anything.”

When the time came to meet Tychus, Raynor saw that Doc was clinging to one of the big man’s arms. Raynor shouldn’t have been surprised, because the two of them had been groping one another for weeks by then, even though certain members of the platoon disapproved. Tychus and Doc were in the same chain of command after all, which raised the possibility of favoritism if nothing else, but no one had the balls to complain about it.

So the three of them ventured into the comfortable sleaziness of the HTD, where everyone seemed to know Doc, and, minutes later, they were shown to their favorite table at Three Fingered Jack’s.

Knowing Tychus the way he did, Raynor waited until his friend had consumed several glasses of Scotty Bolger’s before making his case. “I’ve got an idea,” Raynor said, having checked to make sure that no one was close enough to hear. “Something that will help our mission succeed.”

“Yeah?” Tychus responded. “What’s that? You plan to shoot Max Speer in the head?”

Raynor laughed. Speer had proven to be as annoying as they’d all expected—and forever underfoot. “That would be incredibly gratifying, but no,” Raynor replied. He straightened. “My concern is this… . You saw Captain Hobarth. How many of the POWs are just like her—injured, weak, slow?”

Doc, who was busy giving Tychus a shoulder massage, appeared to be oblivious to the conversation. From the dreamy look in her eyes, Raynor could tell she was high. But so were most of the other people in the bar—difference being that they preferred alcohol to crab. And, so long as Doc was sober while on duty, Raynor figured what she did the rest of the time was up to her.

“So, here’s the problem,” he continued. “The flaw in Vanderspool’s plan is that once we blow the shock wall, the POWs won’t come pouring out. Partly because they won’t be expecting us—and partly because at least some of them will be in bad shape. And loading them will take a long time. Maybe too long. The Hellhounds will be on us by then. How long can the Avengers hold them off?”

“This all makes sense,” Tychus allowed, “but I’ll be damned if I know what we can do about it. Of course you do, or think you do, which is why you’re buying the booze.”

“As it happens I do have something in mind,” Raynor agreed lightly. “And it goes like this: I want to drop into the area one day early. I’ll enter the POW camp, mingle with the prisoners, and help them get organized. Then, when the platoon falls out of the sky, they’ll be ready to go.”

There was a moment of silence as Tychus emptied his glass, followed by a solid thunk as he put it down. Then, having wiped off his lips with the back of one hand, he belched. “That,” Tychus proclaimed, “is one of the worst ideas I have ever heard! Have you been shooting some of Doc’s crab?”

Raynor glanced at Doc, whose attention was still somewhere far, far away. “What’s wrong with it?” he demanded defensively.

“I’m glad you asked,” Tychus replied. “First, if anything goes wrong with your jump, the entire mission could be compromised. Second, how the hell would you enter the camp, supposing you’re lucky enough to survive the landing? And third, what if you succeed, and Colonel Vanderscum scrubs the mission?”

“Yeah,” Doc put in vacantly. “That would suck.”

“It certainly would,” Raynor conceded. “But given the fact that Speer is still on the job, I’m pretty sure our little outing is good to go.

“And as far as how I’m going to land and get inside the camp, I got that idea when our scouts captured a KM Hellhound pilot yesterday. He was shot down over the disputed zone—they’re holding him on the base.

“All you have to do is get the colonel to put a lid on the news that we have him. Then with help from the intel people, I’ll put on a Kel-Morian flight suit, stroll up to one of the gates at KIC-36 and show them some very official-looking ID. Once they let me in, I’ll ask them for a ride back to my base. But, since it’s more than two hundred miles away, it’ll take them at least a day to arrange for transportation. Meanwhile, I’ll find a way to make contact with the POWs and warn them.”

Tychus looked Raynor in the eye. “Tell me something, Jim,” he asked skeptically, “because this all sounds completely crazy. What’s in it for you?”

Raynor was silent for a moment. “You might think this is bullshit… . But this mission is something I actually believe in. Something pure and clean, no underlying motives, no greed—these are our people, and they need our help. I want to bring them out. Maybe it sounds stupid, but this is what I had in mind when I joined up.”

Tychus eyed him cynically. “Vanderspool wants to make general. What’s so pure and clean about that?”

Raynor shrugged. “It doesn’t matter so long as the prisoners escape.”

“Okay,” Tychus said reluctantly. “I’ll tackle it first thing in the morning. In the meantime, go grab some more drinks. All this talking is making me thirsty.”