Cluster Command: Crisis of Empire II (21 page)

A familiar voice filled his ears. It was his AID. “Don’t cry, Sir. I called for reinforcements. They’ll be here any moment, Sir. I’m sorry I couldn’t get them here earlier, Sir, but . . .”

Shaffer stopped crying. He was furious. “Cut the crap!”

“Sir?”

“I said cut the crap. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a long time. I’m dying, for God’s sake, and you’re busy kissing my ass. Do me a favor . . .”

“Sir?” Silence. “Sir? Talk to me, Sir . . . I’m sorry if I did anything wrong. Don’t worry, Sir . . . everything will be all right.”

But things wouldn’t be all right, and the AID knew it. Shaffer was dead and things would never be all right again. He’d died talking to the AID like a real person, something he’d never done before, and asking for a favor.

Oh, it would give anything,
anything,
if only, only Shaffer would come back to life.

A blob of heat suddenly filled the AID’s electronic awareness. The blob was a 99.9 percent match with Cernian body type and hummed on freq twelve. It grew larger as it bent over Shaffer’s body. The AID screamed “Don’t you dare touch him!” but no one heard.

The Cernian noticed the wavy black line on Shaffer’s shoulder tabs. A human officer! The trooper felt around the corpse’s waist, ignoring the coils of pink viscera spilling out through the hole in the abdomen. It had to be here somewhere, the small computer command wanted so much, the one they’d give a hundred dru for. Wait a minute . . . here it was . . . covered with blood but still intact. The trooper cut the AID free with his combat knife and brought it up into the light. A simple black box. Why the big deal?

But the question was never answered, because when the AID said, “I love you, Lieutenant Shaffer,” the Cernian couldn’t hear.

Then the AID melted itself down. They almost always did.

###

Fox-Smith and her pilots had the advantage of surprise and made the most of it. Eight Haiken Maru shuttles went down in the first forty-five seconds of combat. Five of the victims carried troops, which meant five hundred fewer reinforcements for the attack on Port City. It was quite a victory—as far as it went. Even with eight hostiles down, the marines were still outnumbered almost two to one.

Patterns flickered across the inside of Fox-Smith’s visor as her AID and the shuttle’s computer fed her information. The enemy formation had broken; individual ships were going off in every direction. Some, those loaded with equipment and supplies, stayed to fight. Others ran knowing high-G combat would turn their passengers into green paste.

Those were the targets Fox-Smith wanted most. Every additional trooper killed in the air was one less they’d have to kill on the ground. “Don’t let ’em get away,” she ordered. “It’s the troop ships we want.”

A chorus of “rogers” filled her ears as the marine pilots broke formation and headed off in pursuit of the fleeing Haiken Maru ships.

Flexing certain muscles in her right arm, Fox-Smith banked right and kicked in more power by moving her right foot. Ahead and below, nubby green jungle swept through the targeting grid as she overtook a fleeing shuttle. Because it was empty, her ship was faster. Clenching and then loosening her left fist, she swung the LCS to port and flattened her pursuit curve. “Two missiles . . . activate.”

Two lights came on in the upper right-hand corner of her visor informing her that two stubby missiles were armed and ready. A few more seconds and the Haiken Maru shuttle would be dead meat.

“Shit . . . we’ve got one on our tail.” Melissa must be scared because she never swore.

Fox-Smith dumped chaff.

“Roger.” They weren’t going to lose this target. Closer . . . closer . . . closer. . . now. “Fire missiles.”

As the shuttle quivered with missile release, Fox-Smith broke left. It was too late. Melissa’s voice was shaky but under control. The array on her visor showed that the Haiken Maru shuttle had readied a missile and was ready to fire. “They have missile lock on. Chaff ineffective.”

“Kill confirmed.” The voice belonged to Fox-Smith’s AID. The ship’s sensors had witnessed her kill and the AID had recorded their input. Handy if you’re keeping score, but pretty damn meaningless if you’re about to get nailed yourself.

Fox-Smith was only dimly aware of the AID’s words and what they meant. She jinked right, then left, the smell of her own sweat filling her nostrils.

“They still have missile lock on,” Melissa croaked. “Estimated time to impact twenty-point-five seconds.”

A distant part of Fox-Smith’s mind marveled at Melissa’s ability to control her fear. The woman had guts. A closer, more involved part gave the order. “Prepare for emergency separation. Execute.”

Explosive bolts blew, slamming down into her couch as the control compartment separated from the hull. The hull kept on going, faithfully obeying the last orders she’d given it. The missiles hit with a mind-numbing roar, showering the jungle with fire.

The bottom of Fox-Smith’s stomach dropped out as the main chute popped open and jerked them upwards. Moments later, they were falling again, but more slowly now, giving her a chance to think.

Thanks to her AID and the on-board computer, Fox-Smith’s visor was still functional. She scanned it for any sign of attack. If the Haiken Maru pilot wanted to kill them, the control compartment would be easy meat.

Nothing. The pilot was either giving them a break or had other priorities.

Like shooting down the rest of her wing for example. Fox-Smith bit her lip. “Give me the wing freq.”

She listened. Where there should have been constant chatter she heard nothing but static. “Wing Commander Fox-Smith to wing. Report.” More static. She sighed. Every single ship was either dead or down.

The control compartment hit the top layer of the jungle canopy and broke through. Hundreds of birds took to the air.

The control compartment fell fifty feet before the main chute caught on a branch and jerked them to a halt. As they swung gently back and forth, Fox-Smith was reminded of the hammock she’d played in as a girl. It had been her retreat, the place she’d gone to be alone. She made no effort to release her harness and begin the business of survival. There would be plenty of time for that. For the moment it felt good to lie there and think.

Melissa was the first to speak. “We’re alive.” There was awe in her voice.

Fox-Smith smiled behind her visor. She let out a deep breath and suddenly realized she’d been holding it for a long time. “Yes,” she agreed. “We’re alive.”

###

The Cernians came close to breaking out of the LZ three different times, but the rebels had forced them back. Now the pinned-down attackers were screaming for air support and reinforcements.

Nothing came. Automatic weapons fire was a constant, intermittently punctuated by the thump of mortars. The rebels were softening up the LZ for an assault. In half an hour, an hour at most, they’d sweep across the open area and wipe the Cernians out.

None of this mattered to Buka. He was waiting for the other sniper. He swept the powerful scope across the LZ for the hundredth time, dipping where it dipped, pausing wherever there was the slightest bit of cover. Nothing. But wait, what was that? A slightly different shade of green? He jerked the rifle back and grinned. Gotcha!

The slimy bastard was lying in a small depression screened by low growth. All Buka could see was the top of the sniper’s head and a section of his back.

He slipped the safety off, snuggling the rifle to his shoulder. He was adjusting the fine focus on the scope when his opponent looked up.

Buka couldn’t believe it. He knew the bastard! It was Father Pola, his favorite instructor in sniper school, and maybe the best sniper in the Cernian army! Apparently, they’d rotated Pola back to a line unit.

Pola brought his rifle up and Buka found himself looking right down the weapon’s bore. He smiled. The old geezer was still looking for him. Maybe when this was all over, they could get together over a meal. Pulling some branches aside he stuck his head out and waved.

Pola squeezed the trigger and watched Buka’s face disappear. He shook his head angrily. Buka had shown promise in school. Could these kids never learn? Then, motionless save for his questing eyes, Pola searched for a new target.

###

Larry’s missile hit the tank with a brilliant flash of light. The explosion shook the balcony and the rest of Larry’s building as well. But the tank kept on coming.

He thought it was undamaged at first, but then he saw it was turning slightly as it moved with no hand at the controls. It didn’t even slow down when it hit the building. A wall caved in. Still the tank’s engines roared as they tried to drive the machine through the building and out the other side.

Glass balls deafeningly sprayed the wall over Larry’s head showering him with chips of hot concrete. The other tank was trying to cancel his ticket!

Diving inside the apartment, Larry grabbed the rack-pack and headed for the back stairs. He was halfway down when the cannon shell exploded inside the apartment and tore it apart. Man, Suzy would be pissed. Then he laughed, realizing he’d be dead, and it wouldn’t make any difference what she thought.

Another cannon shell exploded, lower now, and the displaced air heaved Larry out the door and onto a side street. He shoved a rocket into the launcher as he ran up the sidewalk towards Commerce. He stepped out onto the pavement. He didn’t give a shit whether the tank saw him or not. Either way they’d pay.

Larry passed Cissy’s body as he jogged down Commerce, jumped over Purdy, and stopped when the huge tank was a hundred yards away. He brought the launcher up to his shoulder and pressed “ready.” He couldn’t miss. The tank filled his sight but it didn’t make much difference. In spite of his earlier success, the bow of a main battle tank is well protected and almost impervious to shoulder launched missiles.

Now they’d seen him and were bringing the cannon to bear. The bore looked big enough to walk through.

What the hell. Why not?

He pressed “fire,” and felt the slight jerk as the missile sailed down the street.

There was a stuttering roar as the tank fired its automatics and cut Larry’s legs out from under him. As his body toppled, the tank came apart with a gigantic explosion, hurling jagged metal in every direction. The missile had struck the cannon’s bore squarely and there was a fuzed round right there waiting for it.

Larry passed out. When he woke up, a medic was bending over him. He was black and wore a big grin. “Welcome back, Private. Not that you’ll be here long. They’ve got nice clean hospital beds for heroes like you. The company CO says he’s puttin’ you in for a medal, and I agree with him. The way you cooked that tank was something to see.”

Larry struggled to speak, to tell the medic he wasn’t a hero, that Cissy and Purdy were, but the fellow wouldn’t listen. He smiled and slapped an injector against Larry’s arm. Antibiotics, painkillers, and a sedative shot through the pores in Larry’s skin and into his blood stream.

The medic wondered why Larry was crying. In a month he’d have a new set of legs, but what the hell, if he’d gone one-on-one with a tank, maybe he’d cry too.

Chapter 13

By the time Merikur reached the surface, Nola Rankoo controlled a quarter of the firebase. All the missile batteries had been silenced and Rankoo’s shuttles were nearly unopposed. The rebels launched the occasional missile from the jungle, and the marines did likewise from the compound, but these were not sufficient to drive the shuttles off. Rankoo was able to use her air and ground forces in combination.

First, Rankoo’s shuttles would strafe an area just beyond her position. Then, while the marines were still in their bunkers, the shuttles would break off the attack and her ground troops would sweep across the new ground.

As they advanced, the Haiken Maru troops dropped grenades into every bunker they could find. When the marines opened up from the next set of prepared positions, Rankoo’s forces would disengage. Moments later, the shuttles were back and the whole thing started over.

Merikur knew he could order his marines up and out of the tunnels during a strafing run and break the cycle. Casualties would be heavy, but the survivors would push the security forces back. But was it worth the cost? Merikur found himself stalling because he couldn’t answer that question . . . and if he stalled much longer, Rankoo would win. Where was she anyway? In orbit or on the ground?

Anson Merikur no longer had a useful role as general. The battle had degenerated into a series of bunker assaults that would end within minutes when the marine line of engagement ran out of ammunition and resupply cut off by the constant air attacks.

Merikur waved his com tech forward.

“Sir?”

“Try their surface freqs. Tell ’em I want to speak with Nola Rankoo.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Merikur waited while the com tech ran through a number of freqs. Most were either jammed or full of non-stop code. Finally, the tech got a response and forwarded Merikur’s request. He listened for a moment, said something in reply, and looked up.

“They told us to wait one, Sir.”

Merikur nodded. He used the moment to sweep ahead with his field glasses. Damn. The Haiken Maru troops were taking a beating, but they kept on coming.”

“Nola Rankoo on freq three, Sir.”

Merikur nodded and took the handset. He did his best to sound casual. “General Merikur here.”

“This is Nola Rankoo, General. I’ve been expecting your call. Surrender
is
the wisest choice.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Merikur replied casually. “I’d say your troops are doing fairly well. You shouldn’t surrender yet. You might still be able to pull off a retreat.”

Rankoo was impatient. “If you want something, spit it out.”

“All right,” Merikur said reasonably, as Eitor and Beth listened dumbfounded. “I’ve got a proposal. Both sides are taking heavy casualties. Even if you win, you will lose half your force. Let’s settle this through personal combat. You and me. Winner take all.”

“One moment.” There was a
click
and the speaker stopped humming.