Doom Star: Book 05 - Planet Wrecker (37 page)

HAWTHORNE: What is it they think they’ve done?

CONE: Become the best soldiers in the world.

HAWTHORNE: Do they think they’re better than the Highborn?

CONE: They’re proud of their military achievements and constantly point to their victories in North America.

HAWTHORNE: Don’t they realize that space superiority and Highborn insertions into critical battles allowed them these victories?

CONE: They’re proud, sir. And they think of these victories as coming from their sweat, blood and military acumen.

HAWTHORNE: So they don’t understand that they’re traitors to everything they used to hold dear?

CONE: Enemy propaganda has brainwashed their thinking.

HAWTHORNE: I think I understand. The ancient French Foreign Legion used to achieve the same results with their recruits.

CONE: I’m unfamiliar with this legion.

HAWTHORNE: It doesn’t matter now. You’re on a tight schedule and wish to let me know something critical, I presume.

CONE: I’ve found several colonels willing to meet with you, sir.

HAWTHORNE: I’d hoped to speak with generals and preferably with a field marshal or two.

CONE: There are no FEC generals or field marshals.

HAWTHORNE: Before they left the planet, did the Highborn order them shot?

CONE: It is my understanding that there have never been any FEC generals or field marshals.

HAWTHORNE: Explain that.

CONE: It is simple political cunning, maybe military cunning, too. Highborn officers command all division-level or larger FEC formations. Therefore, the highest slot a man can aspire to is colonel.

HAWTHORNE: What about staff officers?

CONE: Excuse me, sir?

HAWTHORNE: Surely, there must be chief of staffs of general grade.

CONE: No man is higher-ranked than colonel. That’s been made clear to me on several occasions.

HAWTHORNE: Who controls the various FEC divisions and armies now that the Highborn have fled?

CONE: As I said, sir, with the Highborn evacuation there’s great unrest among the FEC soldiers.

HAWTHORNE: That will make everything much harder. I’d hoped to win a charismatic general to our side and have him bring over other FEC personnel.

CONE: I read your brief, sir. And I think I’ve found your man.

HAWTHORNE: A colonel?

CONE: Two colonels, sir. One is Colonel McLeod of the Twenty-second Jump-Jet Battalion. He’s the most highly decorated FEC soldier on Earth. Originally, he’s from Australian Sector. He’s a fire-breather, as they say here. And he’s angry at the Highborn.

HAWTHORNE: That they fled Earth at this critical hour?

CONE: That they failed to take him. He spoke about his spilled blood on three different continents. Colonel McLeod believes himself betrayed.

HAWTHORNE: (laughs grimly) Is he delusional?

CONE: He’s enraged at the idea of dying helplessly, and he wants revenge. I think Colonel McLeod may be your man, sir.

HAWTHORNE: You spoke about another colonel.

CONE: I’ll have to cut this short, sir. My expert says security people are already cordoning off the area.

HAWTHORNE: Yes, yes, hurry then.

CONE: Colonel Naga is a panzer officer, a tank-man. He enlisted after the Japan Campaign and he has driven from the tip of South America to Hudson Bay in Manitoba Sector. His men are fanatically loyal to him. He believes himself worthy of higher command, and he hungers for power. If you offered him political control of North or South America, I believe you’d win him over.

HAWTHORNE: These two are the only—

CONE: Excuse me, sir. I must run or risk execution. Are you willing to meet these two? They insist on a face-to-face meeting.

HAWTHORNE: Where?

CONE: I suggest along the coast of Korean Sector.

HAWTHORNE: Yes, agreed. Where exactly do you suggest?

CONE: (panting) On the Pyongyang beachhead at twelve hundred hours. We will arrive via hovercraft.

HAWTHORNE: I’ll be waiting. Hawthorne out.

Early next morning, Hawthorne left the Joho Mountains in a two-seater attack-jet. The pilot flew nap-of-the-Earth, roaring over trees, valleys and low hills. At times, Hawthorne twisted around and watched the highest leaves rustle from the jet’s wash. The trip was tiring, with everything soon blurring below him.

The Highborn laser satellites had headed out to space to do battle with the approaching asteroids. But Hawthorne wasn’t taking any chances. He trusted the Highborn to act with ruthless cunning, keeping something in low orbit to hit when the right moment came.

Toward the end of the trip as they flashed over the Liaotung Mountains, Hawthorne pressed his nose against the canopy’s glass. Orange flowers blossomed on the hillsides. They were beautiful. The idea that cyborg-sent asteroids would soon crash into Earth and burn everything in an end-of-the-world holocaust made him nauseous. That he’d had anything to do with originally summoning these aliens made it a hundred times worse. Were the Highborn to blame for that? They’re the ones who’d started the rebellion.

Highborn, cyborgs, plunging asteroids—madness gripped the Solar System. Now he was rushing to meet traitors to humanity, outlaws who had cast their lot with mankind’s nightmare. Had the fools only realized now that they were bootlicking slaves to genetic supremacists? How could he trust such people?

Hawthorne sat back as the jet whooshed over a mountain, zooming toward a river in the distance. He couldn’t trust them. He didn’t even trust Cone. Maybe the only people he’d ever really trusted were Captain Mune and his bionic soldiers. Most of them were already dead from trying to storm stellar death.

Gazing up at the sky, Hawthorne wondered how they fared. He wondered if Mune was even alive.

“We’re near our destination, sir,” the pilot said.

“Yes, thank you,” Hawthorne said. Two FEC colonels, two traitors, two ambitious climbers wanted to speak with him face-to-face. For the sake of Earth, for the sake of humanity’s future, he would deal with them. But if he ever trusted them, he hoped he’d die a crushing death beneath the steel treads of a cybertank.

Waves lapped onto the sandy beach, throwing up swirling foam and a tangled cluster of rubber-like plants.

Hawthorne stood on a grassy dune ninety meters back from the beach. Beside him, Manteuffel spoke into a com-unit. Snipers with scopes lay everywhere and out of sight. Jump-jets waited ten kilometers inland, ready to come screaming into action, firing cannons and missiles.

“There, sir,” Manteuffel said, pointing.

Hawthorne nodded. He’d been watching the speck out at sea. It had steadily grown larger. The speck represented a hovercraft, which had left Japan and sped up the southern side of the Korean Peninsula.

“You’re too exposed here, sir,” Manteuffel said.

“I sent Cone, not suicide troops,” Hawthorne said.

“The Highborn have used hypnotically-motivated soldiers before. This may be a trap.”

Hawthorne glanced at the worried Manteuffel. The wind tugged at the small officer’s tunic and he kept brushing his watering, narrowed eyes. For a fact, it was chilly on the beach. The salty tang, however, was a joy compared to the recycled air of the Joho Complex. It was even better-smelling as he considered that this might be the last time he’d ever see the ocean.

“Caution is wise,” Hawthorne told Manteuffel. “But sometimes too much fear becomes paralyzing. The end of the world is near. Taking a chance or two….” Hawthorne shrugged.

“I’ve never known you as a fatalist, sir.”

“The war has worn me down,” Hawthorne said. He considered that, and he turned to Manteuffel.  “Do you know that Napoleon said a general only has a few years for fighting? Then his time is over. Napoleon went on to prove his adage, showing in his later years that his fine grasp of the art of war had slipped. I wonder sometimes if my time has past.”

“If not you, who sir?” asked Manteuffel.

Hawthorne smiled sadly. “It would be a nice fantasy to think myself irreplaceable. Many leaders have thought of themselves like that. They were each wrong. If I pass, another will rise up to take my place.”

Manteuffel frowned thoughtfully.

Soon, the hovercraft roared toward the beach. It was a loud vehicle, protected by composite armor and outfitted with a cannon, two torpedo-launchers and three heavy machine-gun mounts. A battalion flag snapped from the top of a long antenna, while slanted glass windows showed where the hovercraft’s operator stayed. The machine roared toward them as it blew spray and foam across the water.

“It’s heading straight at us, sir,” Manteuffel shouted in warning.

Hawthorne’s legs tightened. He wanted to hurl himself to the grass. But that would be too undignified. Then he wondered if he’d become too proud. Wouldn’t it be wiser to throw himself prone and survive, then keep his pride, stand and die? But if this were a test of his mettle and the outcome would determine if the colonels betrayed their masters—

Before Hawthorne could convince himself to hit the ground, the hovercraft rose up on a cushion of air and then whined less as it settled onto the sand. A few moments later, a hatch opened and three people jumped onto the sand.

They trudged toward him. Hawthorne recognized Cone in her black jacket and sunglasses. The big man beside her must be McLeod. He had wild red hair, a mass of freckles and likely possessed a Viking heritage. Even in combat fatigues, the man looked as if he should be captaining a dragon-boat of old. The other one must be Colonel Naga. He was slim, with black hair that almost seemed purple. Dangling from his neck was a pair of goggles.

Soon, Cone raised her hand and shouted a greeting.

Hawthorne waited, watching as McLeod and Naga glanced at each other. Cone spoke to them. McLeod laughed loudly and nodded. Naga glanced back at the hovercraft.

“Stay here,” Hawthorne said.

“Sir, I don’t recommend this,” Manteuffel said.

As he strode down the grassy dune, Hawthorne smiled to himself. Those had been Captain Mune’s favorite words. It brought a pang of nostalgia. Now there had been a bodyguard.

The sand crunched under the soles of his shoes. In moments, he met the trio in the middle of the sandy beach.

Cone introduced him, and then introduced the colonels to Hawthorne. Holding out his hand, Hawthorne shook each of theirs. McLeod had a crushing grip, and seemed compelled to try to break bones by squeezing. The blue eyes showed exactly what McLeod was doing: sizing up the Supreme Commander of Social Unity. Naga bowed slightly at the waist. He had dark hooded eyes like a snake, revealing nothing of his thoughts.

They spoke a few pleasantries. Then McLeod glanced around. “I don’t see any soldiers. Do you think you can take Colonel Naga and me?”

“More importantly,” Hawthorne said, “do you think we can take Earth back from the Highborn?”

McLeod put his ham-like hands on his hips and laughed. “What happened in North and South America, there’s your answer, man.”

“If you don’t think we can defeat the Highborn, why are you here?” Hawthorne asked.

“The Highborn left me to die,” McLeod said. “Me! There isn’t a better soldier on the planet. I left pieces of my flesh on three different continents for them. You’d think they’d be grateful.”

“Are you grateful when a dog injures itself protecting your house?”

“You watch your mouth, Hawthorne.” Colonel McLeod glanced around, and he smirked openly at Hawthorne. “Two steps and I can snap your neck before any of your hidden security teams can do squat.”

“What would that gain you?” asked Hawthorne.

“It would be as good a way to die as any,” McLeod said.

“What would be a good way to live?” asked Hawthorne.

“If the asteroids strike Earth,” Colonel Naga said in a quiet but authoritative voice, “what does any of this matter?”

“That we die free,” Hawthorne said.

“I am free,” said Naga.

Hawthorne shook his head. “You two are just a pair of subhumans to the most bigoted individuals the Earth has ever seen. To the Highborn, you are dogs. That they’ve spent your blood recklessly ought to prove it to you.”

“Your soldiers have died in greater numbers than ours,” McLeod said.

“Our soldiers have died to keep their freedom and their planet. What have your men died for?”

“Glory,” said McLeod.

“How does glory feed your family?” asked Hawthorne. “How does glory keep humanity free?”

“The Highborn have deserted us,” Colonel Naga told McLeod.

“They’re highhanded blokes, no doubt about that,” McLeod said, scowling. “I’d like to stick it in their arses before I’m burned to a crisp. What do you have in mind, Supreme Commander?”

“That you stand with us against them,” Hawthorne said. “They’re highhanded, as you said. They’re arrogant and spit on all of us. I’m tired of it, and I suspect you’re tired of it, too.”

“You are said to possess the entire FEC roster,” Naga said. “Political Harmony Corps desires to march each of us before a brick wall and shoot us.”