Starfist: Wings of Hell (31 page)

Now Berentus was married to “that ditzy broad,” as Wintchell called her, who had been left squirming at the end of her debate with Kutmoi. If she squirmed, Berentus squirmed, too. Jack Wintchell was a past master at destroying the reputations of prominent people but he never stepped on his victims once they were down, and Chang-Sturdevant was all but out with the trash of her administration. And on top of everything else, on top of Jack’s disdain for her, Chang-Sturdevant was a veteran and he could never extinguish that tiny spark of recognition he felt for anyone who’d worn a uniform and shared his own experience of serving, however briefly but honorably, something besides their own self-interest.

The note from Berentus read:
“Jack, you might be interested in fund-raising activities, particularly involving the Tabernacle Rock of Ages True Light Christian Church, and certain contractors involved in rebuilding Ravenette’s infrastructure. Tally ho, Marcus.”

Jack Wintchell went to work, and the report that CNN broadcast was a masterpiece. His technique was simple: visuals of his evidence accompanied by a dispassionate voiceover explaining their significance, concluding with a close-up of Wintchell himself asking the key rhetorical questions—never accusing, but asking his viewers if the evidence supported the allegations, and his famous tagline, “And so, Mr. and Mrs. Taxpayer and all the ships in space, this is Jack Wintchell reporting.” His reports would be weeks old by the time they reached outlying worlds, where their effect was still impressive, but in Fargo, the center of government, where
everyone
watched his show, they were damning.

That night his report began with close-ups of various documents, a government contract awarding thirty billion credits to the Highjump Construction Company for rebuilding of public utilities in the city of Ashburtonville on Ravenette, of which only three hundred million had been spent to date. “This contract,” Wintchell announced, “was awarded under the competitive bidding process established by the government. Highjump submitted the lowest bid for the work requested, all very aboveboard.” Next appeared a list of the board of directors of Highjump Construction with one name highlighted:
Viktoria Culbobble;
a list of the shareholders showing that this Viktoria Culbobble owned 51 percent of the company’s stock; and Wintchell intoning, “Viktoria Culbobble’s maiden name was Kutmoi.” This revelation was followed by a close-up of Viktoria rushing into a stockholder’s meeting.

The vid then segued to the Tabernacle Rock of Ages True Light Christian Church in downtown Fargo. The congregation of the megachurch consisted of the missing preacher Jimmy Jasper’s followers, who still maintained their prophet would return and welcome them to the Millennium. Viktoria Culbobble was shown entering the church and participating in the charismatic service, gesticulating, screaming Jasper’s name, tears streaming down her cheeks. Then a canceled check appeared before the rapt viewers. It was made out to the Tabernacle Rock of Ages Church for twenty-five million credits and signed by Viktoria Culbobble. “This check,” intoned the Reverend Strachey Starling, his enormous jowls jiggling, the thin veneer of perspiration shining on his forehead, “was writ by the Finger of God!”

“It may have been ‘writ by the Finger of God,’” Wintchell said, “but He signed Viktoria Culbobble’s name to it.” Pregnant pause. “It has been alleged,” Wintchell continued, “that the late Reverend Jasper was an agent of the alien Skinks who are even now ravaging the remote world known as Haulover. But Mrs. Culbobble is to be commended for her generosity to the Reverend Jasper’s church.”

Now a familiar face flashed before Wintchell’s viewers: a grinning Sanguinious Cheatham, caught on a hidden camera accepting a large packet from the Reverend Strachey Starling, the pastor of the Tabernacle Rock of Ages Church. “Here is a list of the contributors to Senator Haggel Kutmoi’s campaign, a campaign managed by none other than Mr. Cheatham.” A long list of names unfolded on the vid screen and, as they appeared, certain ones jumped into a sidebar with the amounts of their contributions, along with the donors’ employment. “These fourteen individuals,” Wintchell announced, “contributed a total of twenty-five million credits to Senator Kutmoi’s campaign. Our investigation has revealed no evidence that the fourteen people listed here ever gave any of this money to Senator Kutmoi’s campaign and in fact they could not have, not in the sums listed, because they do not have that kind of money.” The vid zoomed in on one name. “This lady is a chambermaid here in Fargo but she allegedly contributed six million credits to the senator’s campaign.” The other thirteen names, with their contributions and employment, scrolled out before the viewers. “All fourteen contributors are members of the Reverend Starling’s Tabernacle Rock of Ages Church. Is this something the Confederation Election Commission should look into? Does this imperil the Tabernacle Rock of Ages tax-exempt status? The commission should start with the Highjump Construction Company, Mrs. Culbobble, Senator Kutmoi’s sister, the Rock of Ages Church, and these fourteen campaign contributors.” Very pregnant pause. “And so, Mr. and Mrs. Taxpayer and all the ships in space, this is Jack Wintchell reporting.”

Five months later. Election night on Earth was almost over. Although all the returns would not be in for another two months, until the votes from the outlying worlds could be counted and verified, Chang-Sturdevant and her entourage sat glued to the vid screens because often as Earth went, so went the entire Confederation.

“Not only did you nail his teats to the shithouse wall when you called him a ‘goddamned fool,’ Madam President,” Huygens Long, the Confederation Attorney General, chortled, “Old Jack Wintchell tacked his balls up there beside them.”

“Please, AG.” Chang-Sturdevant grimaced and sighed. “It’ll be a close one, though.”

“The military services are all solidly behind you, ma’am,” General Cazombi said, nodding his head in confirmation.

“Ma’am.” Marcus Berentus set his drink on a sideboard. “You can unpack your bags; you’re in for another term.” He gestured at the screen with his cigar. The board that had been giving a running count of the votes all night long now stood at 7,564,493,223 for Chang-Sturdevant to 6,345,321,587 for Haggel Kutmoi. “Not a landslide,” Berentus announced, “but if the rest of the Confederation goes the way Earth has, you’ve won. And it
will,
Madam President, it will.”

Cazombi permitted himself a very slight twitch to the right corner of his mouth (which passed for a grin with him), because it amused him that Marcus persisted, when in company, in addressing his wife so formally. But he knew Marcus Berentus was an old soldier and believed in protocol.

“And on that note,” Berentus announced suddenly, striding over to where the President was sitting, “I congratulate you.” He placed a huge, wet kiss right on her lips.

And for the first time in many, many years, General Alistair Cazombi laughed outright.

“You stupid shit!” Haggel Kutmoi shouted at his campaign manager. “You had to go and let that bastard get you on camera! I thought you were a
lawyer,
” he sneered.

“You set it up, old man,” Cheatham replied calmly. “And, if you remember, I warned you in the first place against getting that sister of yours involved in your fund-raising efforts. I could’ve gotten millionaires to distribute the money for you but no, you followed her advice and got chambermaids, housewives, auto mechanics!” He snorted and shook his head.

“My election campaign is ruined!” Kutmoi shouted. “My career in the Senate is ruined!”

“Yeah, well, my heart pumps for you, old boy, but I’ll never be a Supreme Court justice now, and I’ll be lucky not to get disbarred. Next time I try to subvert the rules I’ll do it with another lawyer.” He stood up, put on his mantle, and walked to the door.

“What am I going to do, Cheatham?” Kutmoi whined. “You’re my fucking
lawyer
! Tell me what am I going to
do
?”

Cheatham paused, his forefinger resting on the door pad. “I was never your
lawyer,
Haggel. I was only your campaign manager. But”—he paused as if thinking—“I’ll tell you, as a lawyer, what I think you should do.” He smiled at Kutmoi sitting slouched, crushed down in his armchair. “Do what Jason Billie did. Get a pistol, put the muzzle in your mouth, and pull the trigger. Good evening, Senator.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Grand Master sat in solitary state. The four Large Ones with drawn swords who protected him on his dais were the only persons in attendance. Not even the graceful, diminutive female who served and tasted his steaming beverage was present. The small, low table at his side was bare, lacking even the delicate vase that usually held a single, perfect bloom. The Masters and Leaders, behind the draperies to provide full protection for the Grand Master, were out of sight and therefore did not alter the Grand Master’s solitude.

The Grand Master pondered the failed assault against the Earthman army unit to the northwest of the Earthman city and airfield. It was fortunate that the High Master who led the assault died in his miserable attempt; there was no need to make an example of him.

But, the Grand Master smiled grimly, one positive thing had come of the failed assault, a positive that would allow the Emperor’s Fighters to reach victory against the Earthman army, and then the much-desired victory over the hated Earthman Marines.

It was obvious that the Earthmen didn’t know about the tunnel mouths that were so near to the defensive lines they were establishing. His scouts had told him how many Earthman soldiers were there, and he knew his own Fighters greatly outnumbered them. Yes, he could send his Masters, Leaders, and Fighters through the tunnels to attack the thin Earthman lines, and defeat them. The Grand Master’s smile changed from grim to anticipatory. He clapped his hands, signaling the female to serve him.

So it happened that the Second of the 502nd wasn’t the only unit the Skinks attacked. They also came up from tunnels near the positions of the Fifty-fourth Light Infantry Division’s regiments. In twenty minutes of hard fighting, supported by rail guns, they overran the 227th Infantry. The 138th Infantry managed to hold, with heavy casualties. But the 499th was barely hanging on after three-quarters of an hour—the Skinks who had overrun the 227th were flanking the 499th.

Lieutenant General Carano called on his experienced Skink fighters to save the 499th.

“We have to plan this on the fly.” Brigadier Theodosius Sturgeon looked pointedly at Captain Chriss, the FIST’s assistant operations officer who was filling in for the late Commander Usner. Chriss had done a good job as assistant, but this was the first operation on which he’d acted as the F3; it was going to be a tough baptism. “Here’s what we know about the situation.” Sturgeon projected an overlay onto the map table that filled the center of Thirty-fourth FIST’s operations center. The overlay showed the position of each of the 499th Infantry’s squads, and the known positions of Skink units, along with icons representing their weapons and lines of movement. An uncomfortable number of icons indicated rail guns. Other icons indicated the positions of probable survivors of the 227th Infantry.

“We will go in through the 227th’s positions. If possible, link up with the survivors and have them join when we hit the Skinks from the rear. But don’t waste time if the soldiers are too shocked. Kilo and Lima will be the main force, with Mike in reserve. General Carano is providing us with Battle Cars for transportation and support.” He turned to Commander Wolfe, the squadron commander. “Arm your hoppers for ground attack. Work with Captain Chriss to form an air-support plan, but keep your aircraft out of line of sight of the rail guns to the greatest extent consistent with providing close air support to the infantry units.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Wolfe said.

He checked his UPUD. “The Battle Cars should be here in less than one-zero. I want the companies to begin mounting them and our own Dragons as soon as they arrive. Do it.”

“Third herd, saddle up!” Staff Sergeant Hyakowa called out. “Form on me.” In little more than a minute, the Marines of Company L’s third platoon had their weapons and gear and were assembled in front of their platoon sergeant, helmets and gloves off and sleeves rolled up. Hyakowa gave them a quick once-over, then looked on approvingly as the squad leaders and fire team leaders checked and double-checked their men.

“Listen up,” he said when the squad and fire team leaders finished. “Doggie Battle Cars are on their way to pick us up. From here we go to rescue a doggie regiment or two that are getting chewed up by the Skinks. That’s all I have for now, so don’t ask any questions. Lieutenant Bass is at the company CP. I’m sure he’ll have some more information when he joins us.”

After the fight in and near the back door of the Skink complex, the platoon had done a bit of reorganizing. PFC Gilbert H. Johnson came from Whiskey Company, the FIST’s replacement pool. Bass and Hyakowa had assigned him to second squad’s third fire team as Corporal Doyle was their best junior NCO at breaking in new men. They assigned Lance Corporal Longfellow as a temporary replacement for the badly wounded Corporal Dean in first squad’s third fire team, and transferred Lance Corporal Francisco Ymenez to Longfellow’s fire team, which freed Lance Corporal MacIlargie to rejoin Corporal Claypoole and Lance Corporal Schultz. PFC John Three McGinty stayed where he was.

A rumble of tires on dirt announced the approach of the Battle Cars. The Marines looked at them with curiosity; most of them had never seen the army armored personnel carriers up close before. They were significantly smaller than the Marine Dragons, had wheels instead of air cushions, and didn’t seem to be nearly as heavily armored or armed. Three of them pulled up in front of third platoon, and an army officer with single blackened bars on his shirt collars stepped out of one of them. If the lieutenant was at all startled by the display of disembodied heads and arms, he didn’t show it. He introduced himself to Hyakowa, asked him a couple of questions, and turned to the platoon.

“Listen up, you Marines!” the army lieutenant called out. “These Battle Cars are designed to carry one nine-man army squad each, so you might be a little bit crowded with your heavy weapons. But we don’t have to go far, so you won’t be cooped up for long.” He turned to Hyakowa. “Sergeant, board your men.”

“By squads,” Hyakowa ordered. “First, second, guns.” He pointed at a different Battle Car as he called out each of the squads.

Lieutenant Charlie Bass arrived from the company command post as the last of the platoon boarded.

“Lieutenant,” the two officers greeted each other.

“You’ll ride in the command car with me,” the army lieutenant said to Bass. “Your sergeant can ride in the driver’s compartment of the second Battle Car, and your communications man in the third.” Bass and Hyakowa flicked their eyes at each other when the lieutenant referred to Hyakowa as “your sergeant.” But neither commented. They boarded the Battle Cars and drove off to a fight.

It would have taken two Dragons to carry the platoon, and they wouldn’t have been as crowded.

“Listen up, third platoon,” Lieutenant Bass said on the platoon all-hands circuit; the Marines had put on their helmets and gloves and rolled their sleeves down when they entered the Battle Cars. “The 499th Infantry regiment is in danger of being overrun by Skinks to their front and flank. Those Skinks are supported by rail guns in the forest. Kilo Company is going after the flanking Skinks to hit them from the rear. Company L is going after the rail guns in front of the 499th. When we stop and dismount, squad leaders on me so I can give you overlays and orders. That is all.”

The Battle Cars went at their top overland speed, ignoring the possibility of ambush, and in less than fifteen minutes stopped just east of the former position of the 227th Infantry. Their doors popped open and the Marines poured out and automatically set a defensive perimeter facing to the north and west. Bass raised an exposed arm for the three squad leaders to guide on.

“Here we are,” he said when they joined him. He transmitted the overlay to their comps; there was a “you are here” clearly marked on the overlays, and a “here they are.” Icons showed the locations of a dozen Skink rail guns; the nearest was three-quarters of a kilometer to their northwest.

Sergeant Ratliff whistled. “We’re supposed to take out twelve rail guns without assistance?” he asked.

“We’re Marines,” Bass answered. “I don’t see any reason we can’t.”

Sergeant Kelly elbowed Ratliff in the ribs. “You heard the lieutenant; we’re Marines, we do the impossible.”

Ratliff grunted.

“One other thing you need to know before we set out: You’ve probably noticed that I didn’t have a corpsman with me when I came back from company. The skipper’s keeping them all with the command unit. He gave me stasis bags in case we have casualties. Here.” He handed one to each of the squad leaders. “I’m keeping a fourth myself. We shouldn’t need them.”

None of the squad leaders commented on the lack of a corpsman, or the stasis bags, but Bass saw concern in their faces. He chose not to comment about it.

“Now, here’s how we’re going to do it…” Bass said.