By Blood Alone (35 page)

Booly had no choice, however, or felt that he didn’t, not with odds of three to one.

Reeger had been in the Legion for twelve years, first as a bio bod; then, after his first body was destroyed during a low altitude drop, as a cyborg. Many people never recover from something like that, but Reeger had accepted his fate and transformed himself into one of the best borgs the Legion had.

Knowing the order would come, and knowing that each detail was important, the cyborg had talked a bio bod into cutting footholds into the side of the bank.

Other Trooper IIs had been less diligent, perhaps intentionally so, since there was a definite downside to being first over the top. Many were just starting to climb when Reeger arrived on the plain above.

The rocket barrage suddenly let up—a sure sign that the enemy had advanced and was ready to engage.

Booly looked left and right, saw both lines form on him, and knew what ancient calvary officers must have felt like.

Someone, he wasn’t sure who, gave the familiar yell: “Camerone!” And the line swept forward. The battle was joined.

 

Not satisfied to ride one of the heavily armored tanks, or one of the weapons platforms, Kilgore opted for a scout car armed with a rack of four antitank (AT) missiles and two light machine guns. Mobility was everything, especially for this sort of brawl; the heavy stuff was claustrophobic. A minor detail she had neglected to mention to psych officers over the years. The seat was hot and burned the back of her thighs.

Her driver, a madwoman named Bucey, hit the gas, launched the car off a small rise, and hit the hard pan at forty mph. The gunners, anonymous behind their visors, grinned.

Kilgore would have been thrown out of her seat if it hadn’t been for the harness. She kept a firm grip on the frame-mounted grab bar and tried to peer through the oncoming dust and smoke. What was it that Clausewitz said? “On no account should we overlook the moral effect of a rapid, running assault”? The old bastard would have
loved
Bucey.

The top gunner opened up, a hot shell casing bounced off the back of Kilgore’s neck, and the command channel squawked into life.

“Red Dog Six to Red Dog One. Over.”

“Go, Six. Over.”

“We have visual contact with ten, repeat ten, enemy borgs. Over.”

Kilgore heard herself say “Roger,” wished she had cyborgs of her own, and damned the command structure to hell. There were plenty of borgs, or would have been, if the Pardos hadn’t assigned most of them to the increasingly restless cities.

Traditional armor against cyborgs? How would the contest end? The winner could write a thesis—if there was anyone left to read it. The messages came one on top of the next.

“Red Dog Two to Red Dog One. Enemy aircraft! In from the east! Over.”

Red Dog Six to Red Dog One. Mines! Mines on the right flank . . .”

Kilgore thought she saw the flash of light as Lieutenant Goody died, but there were so many explosions that it was hard to tell. The tanks fired smoke grenades from their launchers and rolled through the self-generated murk.

“Red Dog Three to Red Dog One. The enemy has deployed concentrating crab mines down our left flank. Am trying to clear. Over.”

Kilgore swore. “Booly, you rotten sonofabitch! I want your ass!”

The entire world was concentrated just beyond the windscreen. Bucey spotted a gap in the smoke and pushed the car through.

 

Booly rocked from side to side as Reeger ran, strained to see what lay ahead, and watched the HUD. Or tried to, since it wasn’t long till the blue deltas penetrated the enemy’s front line and the charge was transformed into a melee. Each side had something of an advantage.

The crew-operated armor boasted numerical superiority and, given the nature of the vehicles they rode, superior firepower as well.

Though more vulnerable than the units that opposed them, the Trooper IIs were highly mobile and made good use of their edge. Especially as the battlefield grew smaller and more concentrated.

As with all such battles, there was no way for Booly or his officers to control the way individual duels were fought. That being the case, Booly found himself as little more than an extremely interested onlooker as Reeger went to war.

A mountainous battle tank loomed ahead. Its cannon probed for targets, machine guns rattled, and sand flew from massive treads.

Reeger took a look, knew he was outgunned, and spun out of the way. Shells dug divots out of the ground as a quad lurched out of the smoke, spotted the enemy tank, and turned to meet it.

The tank fired its 105mm gun and the quad launched a high-explosive antitank (HEAT) warhead. Both weapons hit what they were aimed at, both exploded, and both units were destroyed.

Reeger mounted a .50 caliber machine gun on one arm and an energy cannon on the other. He fired both at a scout car and was rewarded with an explosion. A wheel soared into the air, fell, and bounced away.

That’s when something tore through the cyborg’s chest armor and cut his power. The Trooper II’s weapons went off-line, the gyro stabilizer failed, and he toppled forward. Booly went, too.

 

Kilgore flew forward as Bucey stood on the brakes. A weapons platform drifted past, fired its twin 30mm cannons up into the sky, and turned toward the south. Where were the reb planes, anyway? Four had checked in but were nowhere to be seen.

Bucey spun the wheel to the left, stomped on the gas, and swore as a battle tank poked its 105mm snout out of the smoke. The vehicles missed each other by less than a foot.

Kilgore gritted her teeth and held on. Her unit had suffered thirty percent casualties—not counting the damage enemy aircraft had inflicted on the rear-echelon supply vehicles. The battlefield looked like a wreck-strewn parking lot. Should she stay, and go for broke? Or run, and live to fight another day?

An already-burning weapons platform shuddered as an ammo locker cooked off. The scout car swerved, paused so a medic could jump on board, and took off again. Kilgore pulled a gut check and found the decision was made.

 

Booly hit the harness release, pushed himself up away from Reeger’s body, and spoke via the helmet’s com link. “Reeg? You okay?”

“No, sir. ’Fraid not,” came the reply. “You’d better run, sir. I can’t get up.”

“Then both of us will run,” Booly said, fumbling for the release handle. “Only it’s
your
turn to ride.”

“No, sir! You shouldn’t do that. Run while you . . .”

Booly pulled a small lever, opened an armor-plated hatch, and jerked the cyborg’s brain box out of his body. The organic contents weighed two and a half pounds, but the support elements and protective casing brought the total weight up to thirty.

The box came equipped with retractable straps. Booly slipped his arms through and checked the assault weapon’s ammo indicator. Then, ready to fire, he entered the smoke.

 

It was Hawkins who first realized that they had won—if such a term could properly be used in connection with a force that had suffered more than fifty percent casualties.

The first indication was a slackening of fire, followed by less contact, and more activity from Tyspin’s fighters.

While the aircraft had made short work of the planes sent to support the rebel advance, and destroyed the majority of their support vehicles, they were of limited value where ground support was concerned.

Worried lest his pilots bag some friendlies, the wing commander ordered them to wait. What he needed was a break. It came when the smoke started to clear and the rebs tried to run.

 

A weapons platform took a direct hit from a five-hundred-pound bomb. It ceased to exist and pieces of sharp edged metal fell like rain. They rattled across the hood, killed the top gunner, and buried themselves in the sand.

“Red Dog Three to Red Dog One. Where the hell is the air cover? Over.”

Kilgore, who could have been offended, wasn’t. She wondered the same thing. “Flying formation over Los Angeles ... or up Pardo’s ass,” she replied acerbically. “Circle the wagons. Over.”

The maneuver, practiced till they hated her guts, required that the vehicles coalesce around the surviving weapons platforms.

The training paid off as the twenty-six platforms drifted together, linked their weapons via one computer, and opened fire. Gatling guns, SAMs, and automatic weapons swept the sky. The rest of the force, scout cars and battle tanks alike, gathered under the protective umbrella.

Two fighters went down within the first three minutes, and a third followed only seconds later.

Short on fuel and low on ordnance, the fighters made one last pass, killed a self-propelled howitzer, and withdrew. The battle was over.

 

It was cooler at night, refreshingly so, and Winters, who had orders to hold the fort, was busy receiving what remained of Booly’s force, setting priorities, and allocating resources. They owned the air, so the airport’s lights were on.

General Kattabi, hands clasped behind his back, watched the last fly form touch down and kill power. Medics hurried aboard, and a stream of litters came off, followed by a cart loaded with brain boxes. Two appeared to be damaged and were hooked to life-support equipment. More lives and more resources drained away.

The last soldier down the ramp—or
second
to last, since Fykes followed him out—was Colonel William Booly.

Kattabi released a long, slow breath—and was surprised to learn that he’d been holding it. Why? Because he
liked
Booly? Which he certainly did.

Because of the sacrifice that his parents had made? Which they certainly had.

Or because of something else? A more selfish reason? He knew the answer was yes.

The simple fact was that he
needed
Booly,
would
need Booly, when and if the
big
battle came. For if there was one thing that Kattabi
knew
, or
thought
he knew, it was the fact that the
real
fight lay ahead.

Somehow, some way, the isolated pockets of resistance such as the one Booly had established would have to be connected, coordinated, and supplied. Not something he could accomplish alone. Booly spotted the general, crossed the tarmac, and rendered a salute.

Kattabi returned it, said, “You look like shit,” and motioned toward his command car. “Come on. I’ll buy you a drink.”

Booly frowned. “Thanks, sir, but I have a lot to do, and . . .”

“And you have the best damned XO in the Legion,” Kattabi finished for him. “Let Winters do her job.”

Booly paused, realized that the general was correct, and tossed his gear into the car. “Sergeant Fykes!”

“Sir!”

“Take the rest of the day off.”

Fykes grinned, said, “Yes, sir,” and did a smart about-face.

Kattabi watched the noncom march away. “He was a chaplain once.... Did you know that?”

Booly
didn’t
know that and found it hard to believe. Fykes? A man of God? The notion was ridiculous. “You’re joking.”

“No,” Kattabi replied. “I’m not. But that’s the Legion for you. Some are what they appear to be ... and some aren’t. Come on, time for that drink.”

 

One drink led to a second, to dinner in a local restaurant, and to a half bottle of gin. It was a soldier’s solution to a soldier’s problem, and a poor one, since not even an ocean of alcohol could bring the dead back to life.

The sleep that followed was more like unconsciousness than sleep. Booly woke to a headache, a mouth that tasted like Dooth dung, and a lot of sore muscles.

He took a shower, donned a fresh uniform, and hit the mess hall. Most of the troops had eaten by then, and a robot was cleaning the floor. Winters, her comp on the table in front of her, lay in wait. She motioned with a half-filled coffee cup. “No offense, sir, but you look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Booly replied, putting his tray on the table. “I’m glad there’s something everyone can agree on.”

“Haven’t seen the general this morning,” the executive officer observed. “What did you do to him?”

Booly tried an experimental sip of coffee, approved, and took another. “What did
I
do to
him
? The bastard drank me under the table.”

“Maybe,” Winters replied thoughtfully. “But you’re here, and
he
isn’t.”

Booly eyed her over a piece of toast. Winters had that look again—the one that preceded some sort of surprise. “All right, Captain, why the ambush? What have you been up to?”

Winters summoned her most innocent expression. “Me? Nothing, sir. I assumed the colonel would expect an After Action report and, having received it, would accompany the captain on an inspection.”

Booly raised his eyebrows, Winters smiled, and the deal was done. The report took place in Booly’s office, and was both better and worse than he had expected.

Chien-Chu Enterprises had delivered another load of volunteers, which meant that he had
more
leg soldiers than the day he reported for duty. That was the good news.

The
bad
news was that they were down to only thirty-five borgs and, unlike the rebs, had very little conventional armor to take up the slack.

That news was depressing,
damned
depressing, and it dragged at Booly’s spirits. They might survive one more battle,
if
they were lucky; then it would be over.

If Winters was depressed, there was no visible sign of it as she led him onto a lift and touched a button. The elevator lurched and fell. Booly eyed the indicator. It stopped on sub-level six—the very depths of the war-era catacombs.

The doors slid open, and Captain Ny stepped forward to greet them. The six-foot-tall utility body had the appearance of a titanium skeleton. It whi
rred to attention. The salute was perfect. “Welcome to the center of the Earth, Colonel. Visitors are always welcome.”