Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned) (15 page)

Weber broke right, as Larkin’s T-1 turned left, so that they were positioned to defend the hatch. “Roger that,” Sharma replied. “Stand by . . . We’re on the way. Over.”

The security team exited the boat at that point, split, and took up positions around the T-1s. Then, as if out for a stroll, Colonel Rylund clomped down the ramp. Except for his pipe, and a swagger stick, he was unarmed. Which, according to the stories McKee had heard, was the way he typically entered battle.

A phalanx of officers followed along behind, including the battalion S-2 (Intelligence), the S-4 (Logistics), and the S-6 (Communications). All of whom would want to confer with their counterparts in the navy and Marine Corps as the three branches came together to agree on a course of action. Because while Empress Ophelia had given orders to pacify Orlo II, she hadn’t said how. That was up to Vice Admiral Jonathan Poe. He, and two of his senior officers, were waiting to greet Rylund.

The colonel made use of his pipe to salute Poe, who, if offended, gave no sign of it. In marked contrast to the camo-clad men and women around him, Poe was wearing a crisp white uniform, and looked as if he were about to attend a tea party. The admiral was a tall, thin man who was known for his intelligence in a branch where scientific expertise was critical.

There was a flurry of handshakes as the security team moved forward with a T-1 on each flank. That was when it started to rain. Two umbrellas appeared over the admiral, and Rylund was left to get wet as the group left the LZ for the line of trees beyond.

After passing through the trees and a defensive position manned by some bored-looking marines, the group arrived at the center of a temporary HQ, where they took shelter under a large tent. It was equipped with weatherproof walls, which were rolled up to let the muggy air circulate. A female officer was waiting to greet Rylund, and McKee had the impression of a stocky woman with a plain face.

As the rain continued to fall, McKee, Weber, and the rest of the detail stood with their backs to the tent ready to defend Poe and his subordinates should the secessionists launch a surprise attack. Standing guard was a drag, but she could hear most of what was being said, and couldn’t resist the opportunity to learn what she could. “All right,” Poe said, “Hoodsport is ours. So we have a secure beachhead. And, if it hadn’t been for the idiot who shot himself in the foot, our casualty rate would be zero.

“But taking the city of Riversplit won’t be so easy. According to all of the Intel reports, the rebels are not only dug in, they have hundreds of black-market surface-to-air missiles (SAMs) in hardened launchers. So we won’t have air superiority in that area.”

“Then let’s nuke it,” a female voice said.

McKee couldn’t see because her back was turned, but since the voice didn’t belong to Rylund, she knew that Colonel Mara McKinney had weighed in. The Marine Corps officer’s name had been mentioned during the predrop briefing, but McKee didn’t know anything about her.

“That would save us a whole lot of trouble,” Poe admitted, “but it could cause a lot of backlash and even more unrest. The empress sent us here to pacify Orlo II—not to glass it.”

“Exactly,” Rylund said mildly. “So we’ll have to take Riversplit the old-fashioned way. Over the ground.”

“Suits me,” McKinney put in. “We’ll follow Route 3 right up the Sarvo Valley to Riversplit. As we advance, we’ll torch everything within five miles of the highway. That will destroy a lot of crops, put the rebel supporters on short rations, and sap their morale.”

“I have something different in mind,” Rylund countered. “I would suggest
two
columns. And rather than use Route 3, which is what the rebs would expect us to do, let’s use secondary farm roads
here
and
here
. That will allow us to attack from two directions and split their forces.”

McKee couldn’t see, but imagined the officers standing around a 3-D map table, which was updated every ten seconds based on data gathered in orbit. “Furthermore,” Rylund continued, “I think the scorched-earth strategy is likely to alienate even more citizens, making our task more difficult.”

McKinney produced a snort of derision. “Who cares? If they get too pissy, we’ll carpet bomb them.”

There was a long pause while Admiral Poe considered both plans. Finally, after what McKee assumed was thoughtful deliberation, he spoke. “We will attack Riversplit from two directions. Colonel Rylund will be in command of all ground forces.”

McKee felt the first stirrings of fear. Soon, within a matter of days, she was going to war.

CHAPTER: 8

Creating an empire is difficult. But governing one can be nearly impossible.

LIN PO LEE

Philosopher Emeritus, The League of Planets

Standard year 2168

PLANET ORLO II

War was rather pleasant. Or so it seemed to McKee as the 3
rd
Combined Cavalry Battalion followed Route 367 along the left bank of the Green River, toward the rebel-held city of Riversplit, which lay roughly ninety miles to the north. More than a week had passed since Admiral Poe and Colonels Rylund and McKinney had met and agreed upon a common strategy. Now it was time to implement the plan.

The column consisted of two armored cars contributed by the Marine Corps, two companies of legionnaires, and a loyalist outfit called the Gray Scouts. The latter were keen to see some action, but as green as grass and therefore relegated to the rear guard.

Air cover, such as it was, consisted of a single fly-form. Her task was to scout ahead and monitor both flanks in an effort to prevent the battalion from being ambushed. But there hadn’t been any signs of enemy activity other than bursts of scrambled radio traffic and the occasional glint of reflected light as secessionist scouts spied on the column from the safety of distant hilltops. So with no immediate threat in the offing, McKee was content to lean back and let Weber carry her north.

Lieutenant Camacho and his T-1 were in the lead, followed by the first and second squads. And that included McKee. The sun was high in the sky, but a cool breeze kept the air from being too hot as huge cloud-shaped shadows caressed the land.

Neatly planted fields stretched off to the left, with a house beyond, and McKee was glad that Rylund had prevailed. He was right. Burning farms was no way to win the hearts and minds of the local populace.

The view on the right was equally spectacular. In spite of its name, the slow-moving river wasn’t green. A heavy load of silt made it brown. Three six-legged herbivores could be seen on the far side of the river. They were standing knee-deep in a thick bed of reeds as they chewed big mouthfuls of dripping vegetation. If they were aware of the column, there was no sign of it. The two-ton monsters were armed with wicked-looking horns, but according to the scan, the animals were quite docile except during mating season.

Over the next twenty minutes or so, the ground on the left side of the road began to rise as a series of overlapping hills pushed it over toward the river. And as that occurred, a steep cliff rose next to them. Huge boulders lined the foot of the embankment, and judging from appearances, landslides were common. McKee didn’t like the feel of it, and neither did Camacho, who sought to contact the fly-form circling above. “Echo-One to Sky-Eye. Give me a sitrep. Over.”

“This is Sky-Eye,” came the reply. “I see no signs of enemy activity in the area. Over.”

“Well, look again,” Camacho replied. “It has been a long time since a vehicle passed us going the other way. Maybe that’s a coincidence, and maybe it isn’t.”

“Ignore that order,” a third voice said. “What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand, Lieutenant? Alpha-One out.”

McKee knew that Alpha-One was the battalion’s CO. A militia officer named Lieutenant Colonel Jack Spurlock. Though technically in command, Spurlock was supposed to take counsel from Captain John Avery, who was somewhere to the rear. All because Admiral Poe wanted it to look as if the loyalists were in charge. A rather transparent ploy in McKee’s opinion.

A dark shadow fell across the highway as the column entered a blind curve. The platoon’s channel was separate from the battalion push. So when Camacho spoke, Spurlock couldn’t hear what he said. “Heads up, people . . . Sky-Eye is probably correct, but you never know.”

The words were barely out of Camacho’s mouth when a powerful charge went off, part of the cliff above them came loose, and tons of debris fell onto the road. The landslide buried a squad of legionnaires and cut the column in half.

There was mass confusion as all sorts of conflicting orders were issued, someone began to scream over the company push, and a cloud of dust enveloped the lead units. Then two additional explosions were heard. One at the head of the column and one at the end of it. “Shit! We’re sealed in!” someone exclaimed, and it was true.

“This is Sky-Eye” the fly-form said. “The rebs took the cover off an artillery piece just to the east of you. Over.”

That was followed by a shout of “Incoming!” from one of the T-1s, and the shells began to land moments later. The explosions threw columns of pavement and dirt high into the air, and McKee heard the debris rattle on her helmet.

“Echo-One is down,” Hux said grimly. “Track the incoming shells and kill those bastards.”

One T-1 in each squad was equipped with a launcher. Those cyborgs that could send surface-to-surface missiles arcing up into the air. The weapons were equipped with sensors that had no difficulty locating the artillery and homing in on it. The howitzer ceased to exist a few seconds later.

Meanwhile, a half dozen well-sited and formerly-well-camouflaged crew-served machine guns had opened up on what was left of the column from the other side of the river. That was when Sergeant Hux disappeared from the diagram on McKee’s HUD.

What happened next was more the result of the rage she felt rather than anything else as she spoke into her mike. “This is Echo-Four-One. The river isn’t very deep. Follow me!”

It wasn’t until the words were already out of her mouth that McKee realized she should have spoken with Weber before committing him to a suicidal charge. But if the T-1 objected to her plan, there was no sign of it as the cyborg turned toward the enemy, raised the big fifty, and opened fire. Then, after a series of well-coordinated jumps, Weber landed in two feet of water.

That was followed by a moment of complete madness as the T-1 waded out into the current. Machine-gun bullets pinged his armor, threw up geysers of water all around, and buzzed past McKee’s head. Someone shouted “Camerone!” over the radio, and when McKee checked the display on her HUD, she was gratified to see that a half dozen T-1s had followed her into the river.

The water felt cold as it rose around her, and McKee experienced a moment of gut-churning fear as she realized that her initial impression might be wrong. What if the river was deeper than she believed it to be? The cyborgs could operate under the surface if necessary—but what about the bio bods? They could drown.

Fortunately, her fears proved to be groundless as the water rose chin high, but no farther, as Weber pressed forward. Progress had slowed because of the current and the rocky bottom. Fortunately, the legionnaires were only partially visible at that point, and water robbed the incoming projectiles of their force.

Still, McKee could see the flashes on the opposite bank as the machine guns fired, and saw a symbol vanish from her HUD as a bio bod was killed and left to hang rag-doll-like in his harness. And since they were mostly underwater, the T-1s couldn’t raise their weapons high enough to make effective use of them.

Then someone shouted “Grenades!” and at least a dozen black dots sailed out over the river to fall in among the helpless legionnaires. The resulting explosions sent gouts of water up into the air and killed a T-1. She fell over, took her struggling bio bod with her, and disappeared under the surface.

Meanwhile, the bottom had started to shelve upwards, the water fell away, and Weber was able to employ his LF-Storm machine gun. He fired the underbarrel grenade launcher first, scored a direct hit on a machine-gun emplacement, and was rewarded with a series of explosions as a crateful of grenades cooked off.

Then Weber began to fire short three-round bursts as he lurched up out of the river and stood on dry land. McKee saw movement off to the right as a trio of secessionists tried to flank the legionnaires. A long burst from her L-40 assault weapon knocked them down. They weren’t people at that moment, they were targets, and she felt nothing more than a sense of satisfaction as they fell.

After that, it was shoot, move, and communicate as the avenging cyborgs destroyed each machine-gun nest in turn. The soldiers in the last emplacement tried to surrender, but Larkin and his T-1 were there to cut them down. The rebels jerked spastically and fell in a heap.

The firing had stopped as McKee confronted Larkin. “Why did you do that? They were trying to surrender.”

She couldn’t see Larkin’s expression through his visor but recognized the aggrieved tone. “Why not? They tried to kill us.”

“Because they wanted to
surrender
,” McKee replied tightly. “And the S-2 might have been able to get some valuable information out of them.”

“Screw the S-2,” Larkin replied. “What the hell’s wrong with you? You’re starting to sound like a frigging sergeant.”

McKee gave up on Larkin, dismounted, and began the grisly business of checking bodies for documents, data chips, and anything else that the Intel people might be interested in. And that was when the reality of it hit her. People were dead because of a decision she had made. People on both sides. And it hadn’t been her desire to kill anyone. Not the indigs on Drang nor the rebels on Orlo II. No, that wasn’t true. She
wanted
to kill the people who killed her parents. And she was learning how.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Camacho appeared. His helmet was off and dangling from its chin strap. The officer smiled grimly and held it up for her to look at. A sizable dent could be seen where a piece of shrapnel had struck it. “Always wear your brain bucket. I speak from experience.”

McKee pushed her visor up out of the way. “I’m glad you’re okay, sir. How’s Sergeant Hux?”

Camacho’s expression darkened. “He didn’t make it.”

A sense of loss hit her. She liked Hux. And knew he had a family on Earth. “They should have listened to you, sir. We walked right into it.”

Camacho shrugged. “Sky-Eye didn’t see ’em the first time. Odds are she wouldn’t have seen the bastards on a second circuit either.”

McKee knew Camacho couldn’t and wouldn’t say anything disrespectful about Lieutenant Colonel Spurlock. So she let the matter drop. “Sir, yes sir.”

“You did a good job,” Camacho said. “Leading that assault took clarity, initiative, and courage. I’m bumping you up to corporal and placing you in charge of the second squad until we can get a replacement for Hux. Captain Avery will have to confirm your promotion, but I’m sure he will.”

McKee had mixed emotions about replacing Hux, even on a temporary basis. She fought back the tears and managed to swallow the lump in her throat. “Thank you, sir.”

Camacho forced a smile. “We’ll see if you still want to thank me after you’ve been a squad leader for a while. Right now, we need to pull everyone together, get them back across the river, and establish a defensive position north of the landslide area. It’s going to take the rest of the day to clear the road and bury our dead. Odds are we’ll be spending the night. Let your people know.”

“Yes, sir.”

Camacho’s prediction proved true. It took the rest of the day and part of the evening to reconstitute the battalion, bury the casualties where the graves-registration androids could find them, and prepare for the next day.

The ceremony took place in the quickly gathering dusk, and when it was over, twenty-six names had been added to the thousands of graves the Legion had left behind on Earth, Algeron, and a dozen other planets. Some Grays had been killed, but since most of the casualties were legionnaires, it was up to Captain Avery to read the words written by a man named Rudyard Kipling:

The tumult and the shouting dies;

The Captains and the Kings depart:

Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,

An humble and a contrite heart.

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

I won’t,
McKee thought to herself as she stood with head bowed.
I won’t forget.

* * *

It took the battalion the better part of a day to reach the southern suburbs of Riversplit, where they joined a confusing mishmash of other units, all making ready for the upcoming attack on the rebel-held city. As McKee sat on an ammo box and ate her noon ration, she could look out over the cratered no-man’s-land that separated the loyalists from their objective. And it didn’t take a military genius to see that Riversplit would be a tough nut to crack.

Like many ancient cities on Earth, the city had been built on a hill. Not to protect it from marauding armies but because the early colonists wanted to look out over the surrounding countryside. But the result was the same. The secessionists would have the advantage of height. And thanks to thickets of SAMs, Admiral Poe’s aerospace fighters were going to run into a lot of resistance. Camacho’s voice came from behind her, and she turned to look. “McKee? There you are. Sorry to interrupt your lunch, but Captain Avery sent for us.”

McKee felt the stab of fear that always accompanied such a summons. “‘Us,’ sir?”

Camacho smiled. “Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble. The captain confirmed your new rank by the way. That’s why you were invited. They’ve got a special mission laid on for us—and I need a good squad leader.”

McKee thought about the other NCOs, all of whom had years of experience, and wondered why Camacho had chosen her. The doubts must have been visible on her face. “You can think on your feet,” Camacho said. “And people do what you say. Not because they have to . . . But because they
want
to. Come on. The brass are waiting for us.”

McKee accompanied Camacho through a maze of tents, habs, and parked vehicles to the plain-looking one-story building where Colonel Rylund and his staff were headquartered. It had been a primary school prior to the hostilities, and children’s drawings could still be seen on both sides of the corridor that led to room 103. Two legionnaires were posted outside the door, and they snapped to attention as Camacho approached them. “At ease, men. We’re here for a meeting. I’m Lieutenant Camacho. This is Corporal McKee.”

The shorter of the two bio bods consulted a list and nodded. “Yes, sir. Go right in. They’re expecting you.”