McCade's Bounty (22 page)

But not for long. In a few minutes Pong would depart for the surface where he would take personal command of his troops and prove his worthiness to the 56,827. Silly but necessary. He turned to 47,721.

"So, we are well on the way to victory. In a few weeks, a month at the most, our work will be done. In the meantime I must join my troops."

A long rope of saliva drooped out of the alien's mouth parts and plopped to the deck. "Yes, numberless one. You have done well. I shall remain here for a while and monitor the battle before returning to my ship."

Pong delivered a small bow of acknowledgment. He eyed the hood and cape arrangement thrown over the back of 47,721's chair. It would protect the alien's identity between the situation room and the shuttle. The crew was curious, but so what. With the exception of Molly, none of them had seen anything more than the outside of the alien's spaceship. And for all they knew, it was an asteroid transformed into an elaborate habitat and crewed by Lakorian swamp dancers.

Pong cleared his throat. "Do you need anything before I leave?"

The alien was quiet for a moment, as if giving the question his full and undivided attention. "Yes, as you know, our success stems in part from the care with which we prepare for battle."

Sure, Pong thought to himself. If you never take chances you never lose.

Out loud Pong said, "And quite right too."

"So," the alien continued, "I will take the juveniles along with me as I return."

The 56,827 had made their desire for some human children known early on, and Pong had saved some from the slave markets of Lakor specifically for that purpose. And up till now he'd never dared to ask why.

But flushed with the successful attack on Drang, and more confident of his position, Pong decided to indulge his curiosity.

"Of course. I will have the children prepared. May I ask what you'll do with them?"

The alien's reply was matter-of-fact. "Of course. Some of our more sophisticated weapons kill by disrupting the enemy's nervous system. However, due to the fact that neural systems vary from species to species, it is necessary to fine-tune our weapons prior to battle. Some of the juveniles will be used for that purpose. Others will provide an interesting variation to our rather monotonous shipboard diet."

Pong shuddered. Although well aware of the 56,827's preference for dinner on the hoof, it was something he'd tried to ignore. On one occasion they'd invited him for dinner and it had taken weeks to get over it.

Pong thought of the slave girls who'd been captured with Molly. What a horrible way to die. Still, a deal's a deal. He would give the necessary orders.

As for Molly, well, she was safe. Remembering her fear of 47,721, Pong had ordered Molly to remain in his cabin while the alien was aboard, and during his trip dirtside as well. Much as he enjoyed Molly's company, Pong knew it would be dangerous on Drang, and wanted to protect her. He stood to go.

"The juveniles will be ready, 47,721. May your hunts go well."

"And yours," the alien replied politely, before returning his attention to the video screens. A small city was on fire and he didn't want to miss it.

"Incoming!" The voice was an unidentifiable croak in McCade's ear.

He dived behind the wreckage of a once-graceful water fountain. Like everything else in and around Nigel Harrington's home, it had been reduced to little more than twisted metal and shattered masonry. The mortar shells made a loud cracking sound as they marched across the driveway and rock garden leaving large craters behind. The barrage ended as suddenly as it began.

"Here they come!" This time McCade recognized the voice as belonging to Phil. He rolled over and poked the brand-new assault rifle up and over a chunk of broken duracrete. There was no shortage of weapons and ammunition thanks to Nigel Harrington's underground arsenal.

But what good are weapons if you don't have troops to fire them? Only twelve members of McCade's team were still alive. They, plus the five surviving members of Harrington's security force, were all that stood between the industrialist and the government troops that were trying to capture or kill him.

The air was full of dust and smoke. A couple of dozen dimly seen figures sprinted through the wreckage of the main gate. Their armor was covered with powdery white dust. It puffed away as they ran.

Auto throwers stuttered, energy weapons burped, and a grenade went off as the government troops came straight at him.

McCade fired in ammo-conserving three-round bursts, methodically working his way from left to right, watching the soldiers jerk and fall. He cursed them for coming, for running at him through the smoke, willing them to turn and flee.

But they kept on coming, their bullets dancing through the rubble around him, screaming incoherent war cries.

The deliberate
thump, thump, thump
of a heavy machine gun came from McCade's right, and he watched as geysers of dirt exploded upward next to the troops and then among them.

Bodies were thrown backward, loose weapons flew through the air, and the
thump, thump, thump
continued. Continued, and stopped, when there was nothing left to kill.

McCade dropped down and rolled over onto his back. The sky was partially obscured by drifting smoke. Then a momentary breeze blew it away and he saw contrails crisscrossing the sky. The battle for Drang was well under way.

McCade wondered how the battle was going, who was winning, and who was dying.

He thumbed the magazine release and fumbled for another. The bounty hunter didn't even look as he shoved it home. The magazine made a loud click followed by a clack as the bolt slid forward.

"Fighters! South side, six o'clock low!"

McCade looked to his left and swore. What was this? Their seventh sortie that day? Their eighth? He supposed it didn't matter much. About five or six hours after the team arrived the government had evacuated the rest of the neighborhood and called for an air strike. The planes had been strafing and bombing the hell out of the place ever since. The entire neighborhood had been leveled.

McCade rolled to his knees, scrambled to his feet, and sprinted for a bolt hole. It had been a basement window once, but it was no more than a hole now, one of the many passageways they maintained in and out of Harrington's underground shelter. All around the mansion others were doing the same thing. They didn't need orders. The planes came and you hid. It was as simple as that.

McCade heard the roar of the approaching planes and the growl of their mini-guns. The black hole was just ahead. He dived through it and landed on the mattress placed there for that purpose.

The world outside was suddenly transformed into a hell of exploding rockets, bursting bomblets, and flying lead. Wave after wave of death flowed across the land churning the rubble and sending up great clouds of smoke and dust. The noise was almost deafening.

McCade put his hands over his ears just as the voice came through his tiny receiver. "Blake . . . Harrington here. They won't attack as long as the planes are here. Come on down for a minute."

McCade got to his feet and staggered out of the small storage room and into a richly paneled hallway. He followed that for thirty feet or so and came to a heavily armored door.

McCade turned his face so the security camera could get a good look at him and was rewarded with a loud click. He pulled on the door and it came open.

A wide set of stairs led downward. McCade pulled the door closed and made his way down the stairs. Cool air rose to meet him, along with the smell of fresh coffee and the odor of cooking.

Built to protect the Harrington family from everything up to and including nuclear war, the shelter was much more than the name would imply.

Powered with its own fusion plant, and stocked with five years' worth of supplies, it included all the basic necessities and then some.

Harrington's sentient servants and house bots had retreated underground along with him. So, as McCade entered the large sitting room, everything was sparkling clean and a maid was in the process of serving coffee. The thick rugs, modernistic furniture, and expensive art all gave the impression of relaxed luxury.

One entire wall, the one that almost screamed for a window, was given over to a huge vid screen. It was filled with a shot of dramatic-looking boulders, some stunted greenery, and a crystal-clear pool of water.

Like the view from a picture window it was absolutely static, except for small details like an eight-legged reptile scampering over the surface of a sun-warmed rock, and a bird skimming the surface of the water in search of insects.

McCade assumed the shot was live, piped in from somewhere out in the desert.

Harrington wore light body armor, still dusty from a stint on the surface a half hour before, and marked here and there with impacts from flying debris. The industrialist was a damned good shot and had done his share of the fighting and then some. How old was he anyway? Sixty? Seventy? Whatever the industrialist's age he was tough as hell. Harrington gestured toward a comfortable chair.

"Excellent work up there, Captain Blake. Have a seat. Nancy, coffee and cigars for my guest."

A middle-aged woman who looked more like an executive secretary than a maid nodded pleasantly and went to work. Within moments McCade had a humidor full of expensive cigars at his elbow and a coffee cup in his hand. It made an unbelievable contrast with the surface. McCade took a sip of coffee, it burned his tongue.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" It felt good to sit down and rest, but McCade couldn't leave his team for very long.

Harrington touched a remote. The desert scene disappeared from the huge vid screen and was replaced by a wide shot of the Harrington compound. A line of explosions marched through the debris as a plane roared by overhead. Harrington turned the sound down.

"No need to worry, Captain. Most of my vid pickups have been destroyed, but as you can see, I still have one or two left. They're still at it, and as long as they are, your team is safe."

McCade nodded and lit a cigar.

The older man waited until the cigar was drawing satisfactorily and smiled. "I used to enjoy them but was forced to quit. Even with anticancer shots and all that other medical hocus-pocus old age eventually has its way."

Harrington waved a hand. "But enough of that. I have good news. The initial battle is winding down. Your forces have landed and in most cases linked up with the combine. Within an hour, two at most, Zephyr will be in friendly hands."

It
was
good news. McCade knew he should be happy but wasn't. Half his team were dead, and the outcome of the war didn't matter to him. What mattered was a little girl, and a woman on another planet. He forced a smile.

"I'm glad to hear it, sir. The truth is I'm not sure we could've held for another day."

Harrington nodded. "No, I think not."

McCade grabbed a handful of cigars, stuck them in a breast pocket, and got to his feet. "Thanks for the news, sir. I'll go topside and tell the team."

Harrington nodded and watched him leave. A tough-looking man, a soldier from all appearances, but something more as well. Something more complicated than a hired killer. But what? Just one of the many questions he'd never get an answer to.

It was actually more like five hours before a flight of the combine's fighters swept in to control the sky and soften up the government's ground forces, and two hours after that when a flight of choppers landed and disgorged two companies of Pong's best infantry.

First they surrounded what was left of the Harrington mansion, then they swept through the town of Zephyr and secured that as well.

McCade was sitting on a chunk of garden wall smoking one of Harrington's cigars when Major Davison found him. Although it was clear from the condition of his armor the other officer had been in or near the fighting, he looked disgustingly fresh.

"There you are! I've been looking all over for you! Nice job, Blake, damned nice. So nice that the old man wants to shake your hand. Fred's too."

Frederick Lambert was the name Phil had taken.

McCade raised an eyebrow. "The who?"

"The old man, the general, Mustapha Pong himself."

McCade's heart beat a little bit faster. Finally! A chance to meet Mustapha Pong! Maybe he'd know Molly's whereabouts, and even if he didn't, there was a score to settle. A
big
score.

McCade stood up and flicked the cigar butt away. "The old man. Yes, sir. Ready when you are, sir."

The wounded had been flown out minutes after the combine swept in, but McCade found the others and thanked them one by one. Martino, Abu Rami, Kirchoff, and a few others were completely untouched. Then, with Phil at his side, McCade climbed aboard the waiting chopper and watched Zephyr shrink below him.

Then, stretching out on a pile of cargo nets, McCade went to sleep. Davison shook him awake two hours later.

"Rise 'n' shine, Blake. This is brigade headquarters. Before we came it was a nice little hell hole called Foley's Folly, and don't ask, because I don't know why they called it that."

McCade yawned, stretched, and sat up. Over on the other side of the chopper Phil did the same.

Without the breeze blowing back through the open hatch it was hot, damned hot, and McCade's mouth was dry. Not only that, his neck hurt from sleeping on the cargo nets, and he smelled like rancid vat slime.

Davison grinned. "Well, Blake, I hope you feel better than you look, cause you look like hell."

McCade got to his feet. He squinted toward the hatch. The sun was high in the sky and the glare off the desert was incredible. "Thanks for the pep talk, sir, I feel better now."

Davison laughed and waved them toward the hatch. "Come on, Captain, Sergeant, let's get you cleaned up. We can't parade you in front of the general looking like that."

The sun fell on them like a hammer as they stepped down onto the fused sand. Engines roared all around them, as insect-like choppers took off and landed, their rotors blowing sand sideways forcing McCade to turn his head.