Merkiaari Wars: 02 - What Price Honour (3 page)

His thoughts turned to Gina, more properly Gunnery Sergeant Fuentez, but she had been with him long enough to be counted a friend not just a subordinate. She had been quiet when her squad arrived back at base. Oh, she had said the proper things during debriefing, but he knew she was hurting. Losing people you cared for was always hard, but losing those under your command was harder. Gina felt responsible for their deaths, and as the one directly in command, she was responsible. He knew she’d done all she could, but it would be a while before she accepted it. Who would have believed the situation could go down the crapper so quickly?

Certainly not he.

Third battalion was exactly one thousand strong, of which no more than eight hundred and ten were line Marines. Eight hundred and eight now, he thought grimly. All Marines were rifleman first, and capable of fighting, but the odd one hundred and ninety were not truly meant for that. They were supply sergeants, cooks, and a hundred and one other things needed to keep a full battalion in the field for extended periods. He might need them all if this damn… if this
President
didn’t make a decision soon.

“I just don’t know,” President Thurston said.

Stein clenched a fist. “With all due respect, Mister President, you petitioned the Alliance for help. You
do
still want membership… don’t you?”

“Yes but—”

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

President Thurston sighed deeply and stood from his place behind the authentic wooden desk. He gazed out of his blast-proof window at the bustling city below. “Look out there Major and tell me what you see.”

Stein stood and joined the man. “I see buildings and streets. People walking… what more is there?”

Thurston laughed. “What more he says. No, you’re right, but what I see is a future for my people. Did you know that less than twenty years ago this city would have been no bigger than a half dozen shacks?”

“That’s hard to believe, sir,” he said respectfully.

“It’s true, I promise you. My father lived in one. I did too for the first ten years of my life, but my father had a dream and managed to infect others with it.”

Thurston stood silently gazing at what his father had wrought.

“Dreams, sir?” Stein prompted.

“Hmmm?”

“You said your father had a dream.”

“Yes he did. Anyone who was anyone was a miner in those days. My father arranged a meeting with the others and they agreed to build a consortium. They signed their holdings over to the company and became equal partners. Ships rarely came here back then, much rarer than today.” Thurston smiled. “I know what you’re thinking, Major.”

Stein tried to look innocent. “I’m not aware of thinking anything at the moment, sir.”

Thurston grinned. “That’s an amazing statement don’t you think? What I meant was, shipping is still infrequent, but back then we would be lucky to see a ship every five years. Now we have dozens. Anyway, he went off world and came back with the backing and machinery to mine the planet as it should be done.”

“What has this to do with the terrorists, sir?”

“The money he generated paid for the city out there, Major. It pays most of my people’s wages. Close to seventy-five percent of the population works for the company. The rest are in service industries, clothing, tools, food—things like that. More are starting up every year, but we are a long way from economic independence. Those terrorists, as you call them, are my employees.”

Stein nodded. Now he was getting somewhere. “You are the elected representative of this world, sir. It’s your duty to uphold its constitution.”

“Don’t tell me my
duty.
” Thurston snapped with eyes flashing. “Who do you think wrote the damn thing? My father built this colony and the company from nothing; without him this world wouldn’t be what it is today, but for all of that he was still a dictator. The people elected me as their first president when my father died, and I wrote our constitution a week later. Do you really think I would betray that just to save
money?

“I promised them a voice, and by God they will have one,” Thurston ranted. “Those people you would have me kill, are not only employees of the one company keeping this world from barbarism, they are citizens. They have a right to a voice just as everyone else does.”

“A voice yes,” Stein said angrily. “But they have no right to go around blowing things up and killing my people.”

Thurston’s shoulders sagged. “I know.”

Stein took a deep steadying breath and in a milder tone asked, “What are you going to do?”

“Call the election early,” Thurston said squaring his shoulders. “Your terrorists don’t want to join the Alliance? Fine. If they want to stand against me, that is their right. I will make joining the Alliance part of my campaign so that everyone will know where I stand. If I win, we join, if I lose…”

“If you lose?”

Thurston shrugged. “If I lose, you leave, and I hand over the government. I can go back to mining for a living.”

Yeah right. He owned a tenth part of a company, which was sole owner of seventy percent of Thurston’s resources, and the
only
company that could currently exploit them. He certainly wouldn’t need to work, but perhaps he wanted to. Without the presidency, his life would have a void within it that he would need to fill.

“When?” Stein said.

“It has already begun.” Thurston nodded out the window.

Stein turned to look and saw people rushing to view the public address screens scattered throughout the city. He hadn’t taken much notice of them before now—he saw thousands like them on worlds throughout the Alliance, but this was the first time he had seen an entire city stop to watch.

Everyone was silent as Thurston’s recording gave his people news of the coming election, and his reasons for calling it early. The recording ended with everyone staring in stunned silence. A moment later, they turned toward the parliament building and shouted in one voice.

“NOOOOO!”

“I think it’s likely you will win, sir,” Stein said wincing at the volume of the shout.

“Well, well. I don’t know what to say… well, well, well,” Thurston said touched.

 * * *

Planet Thurston, Border Zone

An old and well-used MPV (Multi-Purpose Vehicle) coasted along the quiet street with a turbine strong enough to rip trees out of the ground idling beneath its battered exterior. MPVs were often used for clearing stretches of jungle ready for construction. Although Thurston’s capital was young, its streets were paved as befitted any major city, yet a kilometre outside of the city limits, it was almost impossible to tell that humanity had ever laid claim to the planet. That being the case, most people still relied on MPVs to travel.

The vehicle looked not at all out of place as it slowed and stopped opposite the gate leading to the grounds of President Thurston’s residence. Its windows were dark as if it had been used recently in the full bright of day, yet the addition of extra lighting seemed to deny that. The driver was a dark shadow within his air-conditioned cocoon as he watched the gates. When a guard began to take an interest in him, he accelerated away.

As soon as the MPV was out of sight, the guard relaxed and went back to his coffee.

“Well?” a second guard said.

“It was nothing, just some damn tourist.”

“A tourist? You’re dreaming. No one in his right mind would come here.”

“We did.”

“Exactly my point.”

At that moment, the sound of a turbine split the air. It screamed like a banshee when the driver pushed the throttle through the stops and aimed at the gate. The guards pulled their weapons and ran out of the guardhouse. Both men crouched and fired repeatedly into the MPV’s engine bay hoping to kill the turbine before impact.

They failed.

The reinforced gates gave way as the MPV struck them. Both guards dove aside and came up firing, but unbeknown to them they had no chance of disabling the vehicle. It had been fitted with heavy steel armour in strategic places. It was more like a tank than an MPV.

The driver didn’t flinch as he smashed into the President’s house, nor did he panic as the MPV ground to a stop imbedded in an interior wall. Instead, he switched off the turbine and retrieved the detonator. He flicked open the red cover with a thumb and pressed the button concealed there.

Driver, MPV, and residence disappeared in an eye-searing ball of flame as two hundred kilograms of industrial grade explosive detonated.

* * *

Gina sat on her rack and field stripped her rifle for the tenth time. The well-practiced movements were automatic after all these years. The repetition of routine soothed her. There was nothing at all wrong with the weapon. If there had been, she would be screaming at the supply sergeant for a replacement component.

Grace had been with her in boot camp. Both of them had joined on the same day and had been fast friends ever since. Even her promotion over Grace hadn’t dimmed their affection for one another—and now she was gone.

At least it was quick. Not like Pags.

She snarled something under her breath. Even she didn’t know what it was. It was quick, so it was all right? To hell with that. It wasn’t all right. It stank!

Oh, what was the use?

If she’d brought the launchers, Grace would still have died. That was what she told herself, but would she really? Toting a tripod mounted RPG (rocket propelled grenade) launcher through the jungle would have slowed them, but she would have known that and left earlier, so it didn’t count. She would have set it up behind the riverbank, and given it to Frankowski and Westfield because they were the best at laying it on the target.

Eric arrives, the enemy arrives, she orders open fire…

Gina frowned. No, that wasn’t how it happened. Grace had lit up the jungle with the AAR
before
the order was given, but that was okay because she was in the best position to see the enemy. Which in turn meant the enemy launcher had Grace zeroed even before Eric finished introducing himself. Grace was dead from the moment they set out on the mission.

No, she couldn’t accept that.

How about this then? They could have taken an
automatic
RPG launcher. Again, it would have taken more time, but they had that. She would have set it up behind the riverbank—it really was the ideal place—and put Westfield on it because he was the best with the computer. Eric arrives, and the stupid launcher kills him because he isn’t wearing Marine armour with its IFF transponder telling it not to shoot.

Damn!

The only thing that would have saved Grace was her giving up the AAR. She knew Grace wouldn’t have given it up voluntarily. She had been the best with the weapon and had seniority. Taking it from her without grounds would have shown a lack of confidence in her that Grace would never have forgotten. If Gina had known then what would happen, she would have taken the weapon anyway and given it to… who? Whoever she gave it to would have died in Grace’s place.

She could have used it herself and… Wrong!

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

She would have died and perhaps her entire squad with her. Grace was one person no matter how dear. There had been eight others that needed her—nine including Eric.

She sighed and finished the reassembly of her rifle. She slapped a full magazine into her weapon and raised it to sight through the window. Grace was dead, and there truly was nothing she could have done to prevent it—just as Stein said, but it hurt. Pags had been a friend, all those in her squad were, but she hadn’t known him as long. She felt guilty that his death didn’t hurt as much, but she was honest enough to realise it.

Gina lowered her weapon as Eric walked by the window. A knock sounded.

“Come,” she said and stood to tidy her rack.

“Are you busy? I can come back later.”

“It’s all right, sir. I’ve just about finished. How’s the new arm, sir?”

Eric wiggled his fingers in the air. “It will do for now.”

She nodded. Eric was a viper and spares were hard to find. He wouldn’t be a hundred percent combat capable until he returned to his base—wherever that was.

“Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

Eric frowned. “Yes and no. May I?”

“Sorry, take a seat.” Eric sat in the only chair while Gina used her rack. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“You can stop with the, sirs for a start. I’m not a Marine.”

She shrugged. “You’re a viper.”

Vipers were accorded officer status among Alliance forces regardless of their actual rank. Eric was at the least a lieutenant of Marines, but in real terms, he outranked Stein. All those wearing the viper patch did of course. The snakehead patch that gave Eric’s regiment its nickname became the symbol of the SAG (Special Assault Group) during the Merki War. Back then, all the 501
^st
had worn it and that had not changed over the years since—the downsizing of the regiment after the war had never been reversed. Vipers were rare and special. The patch, showing a snake head with fangs bared ready to strike, was a warning to all.