Heaven's Devils

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

It was late afternoon as a necklace of dropships snaked around Fort Howe, turned toward the south, and landed in quick succession. Moments later ramps went down, field ambulances raced out to meet the newly arrived dropships, and medical personnel rushed aboard. Not only were there wounded to care for, but POWs as well, some of whom were in very bad shape. Then and only then were the troops allowed to make their way down onto the tarmac.

Doc tried to convince Raynor to ride in an ambulance, but he refused, insisting that he be allowed to exit the aircraft with the rest of his platoon. Of the thirty-five soldiers who jumped over the Kel-Morian base, only seventeen were still alive and three of them were wounded. So the bedraggled group that followed Tychus across the concrete toward the buildings beyond wasn’t much larger than a full-strength squad.

Two men were waiting in front of the nearest hangar. Both were dressed in civilian clothes but might as well have been wearing uniforms, because everything else about them was military, including their haircuts and erect postures. One was tall, the other was short, and he was the one who spoke. “Ark Bennet?” he inquired, as the group walked past. “We’d like to speak with you.”

Kydd nearly fell for it. The only thing that saved him was the fact that he’d been using “Kydd” for so long that it took a second to process what the man had said. And that was sufficient time for his brain to kick in and override the natural tendency to say, “Yes.”

Some of those around Kydd knew his true identity, of course—but a frown was sufficient to silence them. And by that time, the shorter of the two men had switched to a different tactic. “Private Kydd? My name is Corly… . And this is Sergeant Orin. We’re with MSS and we’d like to talk to you.”

“MSS” stood for the Military Security Service, a group it was almost impossible to say “No” to. But before Kydd could reply, Tychus chose to intervene. “I don’t know what this is about,” the noncom said ominously, “but whatever it is can wait. We just came in out of the field. Of course you rear-echelon sons of bitches wouldn’t know much about that, would you?”

When Sergeant Orin turned toward Tychus, his eyes were like blue lasers and his face was wooden. “Sergeant Corly has a medal of valor—and was wounded three times in the battle of Rork’s Rift.” He stepped closer until Tychus felt the agent’s breath on his face. “You think we don’t know what it feels like to put our lives on the line? To see our brothers and sisters get blown to pieces right in front of us? You watch your mouth, son, and pray you never turn up on my case list.”

Kydd knew that a large handgun was probably responsible for the visible bulge under Orin’s jacket. But Tychus was armed too, and Kydd could see the pressure starting to build, as the noncom took a step forward. “You know where you can shove your case list, Sergeant. Or maybe I should do it for you.”

Kydd hurried to get in between them. “No problem, Sarge… . I might as well get this over with. I’ll see you back at the barracks.”

Raynor nodded. “Come on, Tychus… . You can use your natural charm to get me some service at the infirmary.”

Tychus glowered, but allowed himself to be steered away. That left Kydd with the MSS agents. Corly eyed the sniper’s rifle. “Is that thing unloaded?”

Kydd nodded. “It is… . Would you like to check?”

“No,” Corly replied. “That won’t be necessary. Please accompany us to the command center. We have some questions to ask you—but the process won’t take long. We’ll have you back with your buddies shortly.”

Was that true? Or an attempt to put his fears to rest? Kydd didn’t know, not that it mattered, because the MSS agents would do whatever they wanted to do.

It was a short walk to the command center, through the entrance, and down a side hall to an office labeled maintenanceofficer. Kydd felt an emptiness at the pit of his stomach. Because here, after all of the combat, was a different kind of battle. It was a stark choice. Did he want to go back to being Ark Bennet—son of privilege, a businessman, and head of an Old Family? Or did he want to be Ryk Kydd—soldier, sniper, and adventurer?

Orin opened the door to the empty office. A round table was positioned in front of a utilitarian desk covered with clutter. Corly gestured to one of four seats. “Please, sit down.”

Kydd hesitated. This would be a crucial, life-defining decision—there was no turning back after this. What was the saying Raynor used every now and then? The one he always attributed to his father? “You are who you choose to be.” Yeah, that was it. Kydd had always laughed off Raynor’s attempts to impart his sentimental brand of wisdom—that kind of warmth was completely foreign to him. But somehow this one resonated with Kydd, even now, when his mind was filled with anxiety.

Both MSS agents were seated at the table by the time Kydd lowered himself into the steel chair. Corly eyed a viewscreen. “According to your P-1 file, you submitted affidavits claiming that your real name is Ark Bennet—and that you were snatched off the streets of Tarsonis by a rogue recruiter. Is that correct?”

Kydd took a slow, deep breath as he chose his next words. He thought about the former version of himself, the one that had gone for a stroll in the neighborhood called Hacker’s Flat back on Tarsonis, and understood what he had been looking for back then. He’d been looking for a chance to live life outside of the obligations he’d been born to, beyond the cocoon of safety in which his family preferred to live, and earn a place in the world rather than simply inherit it.

“I filed affidavits in which I claimed to be Ark Bennet,” Kydd admitted. “That much is true.”

Corly raised an eyebrow. “And the claim itself? Is that true as well?”

“No,” Kydd said, trying to appear remorseful as he looked down at the tabletop.

“So you lied to Major Macaby?”

Kydd looked straight into his interrogator’s eyes. “Yes, sir.” Kydd swallowed the lump in his throat. “I did.” He shifted his eyes toward Orin.

There was a moment of silence as the MSS agents glanced at each other. It wasn’t the response they’d been expecting.

Kydd’s mind swirled with worry. Did they believe him? Did they already know the truth? Was his father watching them right now? He pretended to cough as he glanced around the room. If there was a camera, he couldn’t see it.

Corly leaned forward. “Why did you lie?”

“Why? I wanted to get the hell out of the Marine Corps,” Kydd replied matter-of-factly. He continued, gaining confidence as he spoke. “I’d heard that a rich kid was missing, and based on the description they gave of him, it sounded as though we have a similar appearance.”

“Yes, there is an uncanny resemblance, Private.” He paused for a moment as he examined Kydd’s face. “Although you look leaner, tougher almost. So what changed?” he asked as he looked back at the screen. “Why are you coming clean now?”

“I’ve had time to think it through. I mean, how far would I get?” Kydd inquired cynically, as his eyes came back into contact with Corly’s. “To Tarsonis? Where the family would denounce me?” He laughed incredulously, for dramatic effect. “I mean, is the family still looking for this kid? How long’s it been? Months?”

“There are quite a few bounty hunters out there trying to nab the hefty reward offered by the family. Damn shame we’re not eligible for it, because Sergeant Orin and I are feeling pretty close to finding our man.” Those words sent a chill down Kydd’s spine. “So yes, even now, the search is still ongoing. We have nearly a hundred leads to comb through.” He pressed some buttons on the terminal. “You may be surprised to learn that your profile was assigned a relatively low percentage rating for a match. But then again, Sergeant Orin and I know that the computers are programmed to assume that all of our military recruiters are law-abiding citizens.”

Kydd felt relieved, but was careful to keep the emotion hidden.

“But,” Corly continued, “allowing for the possibility that some recruiters will break the law to make quotas, we ran a retinal scan and compared it to the one the Bennets gave us.” He looked squarely at Kydd. “You’re a match, Private.”

The floor seemed to drop out from under Kydd. He felt dizzy, nauseous. His voice quivered as he spoke. “Regardless of what you think,” Kydd pleaded, “I’m in this for good, and you can’t take that away from me. I have a great record, I’m the best at what I do, and my platoon needs me.” He paused to muster his resources, which seemed to be fading. “Those men and women—those are my brothers and sisters out there.” He punctuated his words by jutting his finger in the direction of the barracks. His eyes moistened. Embarrassed, he looked down at the table.

“What he says is true,” Orin said calmly, as he spoke for the first time since they had entered the office. He twirled a wand stylus in his fingers. The larger sergeant’s deep, resonant voice was a sharp contrast to Corly’s. He had brown skin, and his piercing blue eyes had shifted to Corly by then. “He does have a helluva record—and he is a skilled sniper. In fact, the commanding officer of Firebase Zulu put him in for a medal.”

That was news to Kydd. A medal! It was hard to believe. Here was further validation of what he already knew inside. He was good at something, and the military was his home.

“So, where does that leave us?” Corly asked.

Kydd’s eyes shifted desperately between the two sergeants.

Orin was silent for a moment, and when the noncom spoke, his eyes were slightly out of focus as if seeing himself in another time and place. “Lying to get out of the Corps was wrong. But Private Kydd admits that—and all of us make mistakes. And sometimes, if we’re real lucky, somebody cuts us some slack.” He looked squarely at Kydd. “You’re a credit to the Confederacy, son, and you exemplify everything the marines stand for. Private Kydd, unless Sergeant Corly here disagrees, I believe you’re free to go.”

Kydd looked immediately at Corly, who nodded sagely and smiled. “You’re a lifer, boy. Pure and simple.” He pressed both hands on the table. “This case is closed.”

The young soldier surprised everyone—himself included—by letting out an audible sigh of relief. He recovered quickly and was grinning from ear to ear as he stood up and shook hands with the men who saved Private Ryk Kydd.

Three days had passed since the raid on the Kel-Morian base, it was about 2000 hours, and the HTD was crawling with pilots, marines, and rangers. A lot of them went bar to bar up and down the main drag, looking for the perfect watering hole, but never finding it.

The single exception was Three Fingered Jack’s, which was so packed that it was difficult to get in or out. A blue haze hovered over the tables, the buzz of conversation made it difficult to hear, and a live band added to the cacophony of sound. Raynor, Tychus, Harnack, Doc, Ward, and Kydd were seated at a large round table at the center of the room. Other members of the 321st were present as well, along with about fifty ex-POWs, and about half of the pilots who had rescued the whole bunch of them from the disputed zone. It was a very rowdy crowd.

But when a vehicle delivered Captain Hobarth and her medical aide out front, a path magically opened up before her, and everyone broke into applause as she shuffled back into the main room. Then, once she raised a skeletal hand, the noise died down, and it was Three Fingered Jack himself who handed the pilot a mic. “First,” the captain said hoarsely, as she looked around the room. “I want to toast the brave soldiers who led this dangerous mission. Here’s to our heroes, a group of fine men and women whose name shall be echoed for generations to come—our very own Heaven’s Devils!”

The crowd cheered. By that time Speer’s on-the-scene reporting had been seen throughout the Confederacy—and the entire crowd was familiar with the STM platoon’s new nickname. Thunderous applause resonated throughout the room as everyone who wasn’t already standing came to their feet and turned to face the table where the soldiers were seated. Tychus grinned broadly, Raynor looked embarrassed, Harnack struck a pose, Kydd gazed around in awe, Zander frowned disapprovingly, Ward stared at his hands, and Doc was too high to know what was going on.

Hobarth smiled, and when the noise dropped down, she spoke again. “Secondly, I want to thank the entire 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion for rescuing my brothers and sisters from KIC-36.”

That provoked another round of clapping, as the entire battalion came in for some well-deserved recognition, and the Heaven’s Devils joined in.

Hobarth nodded soberly as the noise died down. “Last, but not least,” the officer said, as she extended her hand to accept a shot glass of Scotty Bolger’s whiskey. “I would like to propose a toast. This is for the fine men and women who gave their lives for the Confederacy and their fellow soldiers. We shall hold them in our hearts and minds until the time comes to join them. Then, as now, we’ll get drunk as hell! The next round is on me!”

The next couple of hours were a smoky, booze-drenched blur from which Raynor awoke to a buzzing sound, as a sharp object dragged across his arm. Then the worst of the pain went away as the bald man on the stool next to him swore and got up to take a fone call.

Raynor struggled to focus his eyes and get his bearings. He was surrounded by tiny drawings, no—tattoo designs. Thousands of them, laminated and tacked to the walls, corners blowing in the breeze created by a rusty fan.

Raynor had a vague memory of leaving Three Fingered Jack’s with the rest of the squad and staggering down the main drag. He remembered stopping to take a piss on a brick building. And he remembered stumbling past neon lights into a doorway with Tychus’s heavy arm slung around his shoulder.

“Ty-chus … Ty-chus … Ty-chus,” Raynor called out in a sing-songy voice. He heard a grunt originate from behind him. He followed the direction of the voice and saw that Tychus was laid out on a table, where a woman with bright blue hair was busy inking a new tat onto his sculpted abs. For his part the big man was puffing on a cigar while staring at the artist’s cleavage.

Raynor got up, stumbled over to the table, and squinted at the design. It was blurry at first, but when the image rolled into focus, Raynor found himself looking at a winged skeleton. It was partially concealed by a hooded robe, and armed with an old-fashioned rotary machine gun. There was a mushroom-shaped cloud in the background, and the name heaven’ sdevils was spelled out on the banner over the skeleton’s head. “I like that,” Raynor said thickly. “I like that a lot.”

“I sure hope so!” Ward yelled out, but Raynor didn’t understand why.

“Mine’s better,” Doc said as she looked back over a bare shoulder. “Check it out.” She was seated on a stool about ten feet away with a tattoo artist behind and to her left.

Raynor was proud of the way he was able to cross the intervening section of floor without falling down. The tattoo artist smiled and moved to one side so he could see. As Raynor examined her shoulder tattoo, he realized that it was exactly like the one Tychus was getting except that the machine gun had been supplanted by a huge syringe and needle!

“Whaddya think?” Cassidy asked. “Cool, huh?”

“Very,” Raynor replied airily. “It’s just like Tychus’s. Cute, very cute, you two.” He waggled a finger at Doc and turned back to face Tychus, at which point he delivered a wink and a smile. “Matching tattoos, huh?”

Raynor heard laughter from all around the shop, and wondered what he was missing.

The bald man came to collect him. “Come on,” he said. “We’re about halfway through yours.”

As the man led Raynor back to his table he realized that the Heaven’s Devils had taken over the establishment and all of them were getting tattoos!

“Sit down, champ,” the man said patiently. “And hold still.”

Raynor heard more snickering from all around him. He laughed too, not knowing why. “Yup, you got it.” He closed his eyes and took a nap.

The tattoos took time, as did the enormous breakfast that followed, so it was about 0500 before the Devils finally reentered the base and made their way back to the barracks. And that was where First Lieutenant Samantha Sanchez was waiting for them.

The officer had black hair worn in a buzz cut, a face that might have been pretty with a little bit of makeup, and a blocky body that was all muscle and no fat. Unlike Quigby, Sanchez wasn’t insecure, didn’t need to run her mouth, and, judging from her hands-on-hips stance, wasn’t going to take crap from anybody. Not even Tychus, whom she chose to address first.

“Are you in charge of the first squad? I thought so… . My name is Sanchez. I want your people out front and ready to run the perimeter of the base at 0530. No excuses, no exceptions, and no bullshit. Do you scan me, Sergeant?”

Tychus had served under all sorts of officers during his years in the military and knew the real deal when he saw it. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Five by five.”

“Good,” Sanchez replied, as if she would have been surprised by any other response. “Maybe you’ve heard of a city called Polk’s Pride… . It seems that the KMs have a strategic resources repository there. And we’re going to be part of the effort to capture it. If we succeed it will shorten the war. Questions?”

Kydd raised a hand. “Didn’t the first attack fail?”

Sanchez nodded. “That’s right… . And the second attack failed too. So we’ll have our work cut out for us. Any more questions? No? Well, get your shit together. Because you’ll be up to your asses in Kel-Morians a few days from now and I expect this platoon to do its part. That is all.” Sanchez did an about-face and left.

Harnack watched her go. “So what was that about?”

Raynor was tired, sore, and sickeningly hung over. It took considerable effort to produce a smile. “That was her way of saying, ‘howdy,’” Raynor replied weakly. “It was all stick and no carrot. Same way Tychus runs things.”

Harnack shrugged. “Works for me… . I don’t like vegetables.” He grinned in response to his own joke and slapped a wobbly Raynor on the arm as they headed for the barracks.

“Ow! Watch it.” Raynor’s arm seared with pain, and as he walked, he lifted his sleeve to see if any of the swelling had gone down. He peeled back the gauze bandage. No such luck. The skeleton was plump and fleshy, and the heaven’ sdevils banner was three-dimensional. As if it had come to life.