The Price of Peace (15 page)

The lead truck halted a few feet from him. The driver stuck his head out. "You folks need a lift into town?"

"Yeah," Trouble answered. They looked on the up-and-up. One driver, one passenger. Canvas hung loose. He sauntered toward the rig. "Things look lively in town. What's going on?" he chattered. All the equipment, all the technology, and it still came down to a jarhead hanging it all out on the line. Trouble climbed up on the truck's step and peered into the cabin. Two guys sat there. In the shadows at their feet were propped assault rifles. The passenger went for his.

Trouble backed off the step. As he hit the ground, the canvas came up in the back. More gun barrels stared him in the face. His knees buckled without even a suggestion from his brain. As he went down, he shouted, "Hostiles!" Once on the deck, he rolled himself under the truck.

Right under an old-fashioned hydrogen/oxygen fuel cell. Even as his body screamed at the new torture, his brain was shouting—explosives!

With bullets whizzing above him, both incoming and outgoing, he rolled himself right out the other side of the truck. Pistol out, he sent one round up through the door. That ended the passenger's shooting. He was the only gun pointed out this side. Damn, they're going for the prisoners—and Ruth.

His knees water, Trouble used his left hand to pull himself up. The driver was shouting orders even as he leveled his gun in Ruth's direction. The marine yanked the door open. As gun and passenger fell out, he put two rounds into the back of the driver's head. His knees refused to support his weight, so Trouble did a belly flop onto the bloody seat and grabbed the release for the parking brake. As incoming rounds from his "friendly" marines ripped holes through the cab, as well as the gunners on the truck bed, the entire rig gave a lurch. That brought yelps from the gunners standing behind bags of potatoes piled up like sandbags on the truck's flatbed.

While the truck's roll spoiled their shooting, Trouble emptied his pistol through the rear window, taking down gunners who were trying to get back their aim at the prisoners and civilians diving for the scant cover of the wheat field. When the automatic closed open, Trouble grabbed for the driver's assault rifle. Dead fingers didn't want to let go, but Trouble had more persistence. Not much more, but enough.

Snatching a spare magazine, Trouble rolled out of the cab and lurched and flopped his way to the rear, hearing and feeling a lot of rounds coming in above his head. Usually he was tough on marines who shot high. Today, he prayed they would.

The driver and passenger of the next truck were just getting their weapons out. He didn't try for a sight picture, but walked a burst across the hood and through the windshield. Not looking for danger to their front, they died not knowing what hit them.

Adrenaline finally cut in. Leaping onto the front bumper of the second truck, Trouble sent a long blast through the cab's rear window and into the gunners on the flatbed. He was switching magazines when he heard a click behind him.

One gunner had stayed low, been missed, and now had a bead on Trouble's wide-open back as he pulled back the arming handle. "Dumb jarhead," he grinned.

And dropped forward over his gun, dead from a bullet between the eyes.

"Thought you might need some help," Ruth gasped as she bounced off the fender of the rear truck. Her dash in had not spoiled her aim. Thank God. Trouble tumbled off the bumper, his knees no longer caring how much adrenaline was pumping through his bloodstream. Ruth caught him as he went down.

From the field, the corporal shouted, "Okay, people, you can keep dying, or you can drop your guns and live. Your call, but until we hear something, we're
gonna
keep riddling those trucks."

Whatever surprise the trucks might have once had was long gone. The marine fire was growing in intensity, and from the holes appearing in the trucks, Trouble's crew was getting in some seriously aimed rounds. In the rear truck, there was another scream, followed by, "We quit! We quit! Stop shooting!"

"Cease fire," Trouble croaked. The corporal got something more understandable out on the squad net. Fire stopped like a hose had been turned off.

"Come out slow, and with your hands in plain view," the corporal ordered. "One at a time." The new set of prisoners did. Marines appeared out of the grass. Two kept their rifles on the thugs. Two more frisked them down, made sure a prisoner hadn't forgotten a pistol, knife or grenade, then got them spread-eagled on the ground.

"We lose anyone?" he asked no one in particular.

"A marine's checking the prisoners. One or two are bleeding, but it doesn't look bad from here," Ruth answered.

"No casualties among the marines," the corporal reported. "Not that you didn't do your damnedest, sir, to be one."

"Just part of the job, Corporal." Trouble sighed, rolled onto his back and stared at the sky. Ruth and the corporal exchanged the kind of glance Trouble has seen young mothers trade over wayward kids that were still in diapers. Well, he'd gotten everyone out alive. That was what mattered, wasn't it?

Ruth settled down beside him. "How you feeling?"

"Fine, fine. Give me a beer, a good meal, about ten years of sleep, and I couldn't be better. You know, I joined the Corps 'cause I wanted to do exciting things. I really enjoyed the adrenaline rush." Ruth's face screwed up into some kind of doubting Thomas's scowl. "No, I really mean it."

"Well, have you had enough for one day?"

"Five or six." Trouble tried to leverage himself up. Ruth stood, offered him a hand, and pulled him up.

"That was a short rest break."

"No rest for the wicked. At least, not until we get these bad guys into whatever kind of lockup this town prides itself on. Corporal?"

"Skipper just came back up on net. No, sir, she hasn't sent us any transport."

"Nice to know we didn't shoot up our boss's personal gift," Trouble laughed. "Check these trucks for weapons, then have the prisoners toss off the potato sacks. Let's get saddled up and moved into town."

"Yes, sir. You heard him, marines, let's get moving."

Zylon Plovdic was not moving; she'd parked the truck under a tree. They were past the first line of foothills, but she could still see the haze that marked the sky above Hurtford City. She'd expected Big Al to urge her to drive faster. Instead, he'd called a halt. She selected a spot, close to a crossroads that would let them go just about anywhere. Now she waited while Big Al stared at the haze. Things had been coming fast and furious all day. She hoped she hadn't tied herself to someone who couldn't handle sudden changes to well-laid plans.

"We have been reacting to them," Big Al muttered, then turned to her. "We must return to their reacting to us."

"Yes," she agreed. That was why she'd suggested the fires and the raid on the airstrip. Her associates had seen the marines drive into town, but they brought no prisoners. That left a good chance that the only people who could incriminate them were still out in the open. It had been worth a try.

Zylon had expected some report from that effort. Said report was overdue. She didn't want her first job for Big Al to be a mess, but it was out of her hands.

Big Al extended the radio's antenna.

"It will give away our position," Zylon said cautiously.

"We will be gone from here in a moment. All of my children," he said into the tiny handset. "Come back home. Come quickly. Do not play with fire. I will speak with you no more until I see you face to face." He snapped the antenna from the radio and tossed both of them out the window.

"Now, they, whoever they are, expect us to flee for our lives. To hide away, and cause them no more trouble. We must disenchant them with such daydreams." Pulling his personal assistant from his pocket, he plugged it into the truck's display. A flashing red dot appeared on the map. "Go to that location. I have left a few things I doubted I would need, but it seems that I do. Then we will see what resources we have who are not just fair-weather friends." "We're leaving," Zylon shouted to the two who'd stood a few feet away, smoking. They scrambled aboard as she pulled out. She wanted to be as far from this place as possible before anyone came hunting for them. Big Al might be ready for a return to the old days, but until she saw some proof that was possible, Zylon Plovdic would stay very much out of everybody's way.

Once Trouble had his prisoners safely in the local lockup, he relaxed. He added four marines to the local guards, who sported nothing more threatening than nightsticks, then went hunting for the skipper. He found her at City Hall.

"Trouble, you look like shit" were her first words.

"Skipper, you say the nicest things to a guy." But since he felt like he'd been stunned, run over by a truck, and generally knocked around, he couldn't argue with her.

Captain
Umboto
turned to the city manager. "Can you put him up somewhere?"

"The Hurtford Inn is a block from here. They owe us big time for putting out that fire not two doors down from them."

"Is it secure?" Trouble asked. He'd had his fill of waking up in surprising locations.

"We'll make sure it is," the skipper assured him. "You and your lady get rooms, a shower, some sleep, and I'll see you tomorrow morning."

With the pressure off, Trouble dropped like a leaking balloon. "His lady" led him down the hall in a fog. A nurse snagged them both as they went by her office and shot them full of painkillers and anything else she thought might help. Trouble made it to the hotel. He had dim recollections of checking in. He must have shed his body armor and clothes, but he didn't remember doing it. He was asleep before someone closed the door behind him. "You awake, Lieutenant?" and a pounding on the door brought him back to consciousness.

The clock beside the bed, and the sun streaming in the window, told him it must be morning. He wondered how many days he'd slept. Not enough.

There was more pounding, on the door and in his head. "Go away," he mumbled.

"Skipper wants to see you, sir." It was Gunny's voice. Only that old
topkick
would dare face his officer this morning. Stumbling over strewn clothes, Trouble stubbed a toe on armor. A check through the peephole showed Gunny, shaved and shipshape. Trouble yanked the door open.

"You look like shit, sir," Gunny said.

"You are not very observant, Gunny. I look like shit that's had a night's sleep."

"If you say so, sir. I got a razor, toothbrush, underwear, the essentials, sir." Gunny examined the room in a single glance. "Don't look like that uniform's
gonna
be good for much." "Probably not," Trouble agreed. "While I take a shower, you want to get me something?" "Yes, sir," Gunny said, but he didn't move. Serving as lifeguard while Trouble showered also seemed part of his assignment this morning. Since Trouble almost lost his balance twice, maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. Gunny covered for the lieutenant by taking the time to bring him up to date. "
Patton’s
heading in with a
merchie
under prize crew and a hell of a lot of happy people as well as a couple dozen unhappy types."

"Did they get that tub's files intact?" Trouble asked, washing his hair for the third time.

"The XO is proud as punch they did. He scared the bad guys real good. They didn't even try a wipe. Still, they're so encrypted that it looks like a long, hard pull to crack them."

Making a second run at scrubbing himself down, Trouble asked about the situation in town. "Pretty stable. Skipper will tell you more at breakfast, but it looks like we got them in the brig or on the run. Locals got a real interesting way of doing business. I spent yesterday watching folks vouch for each other... or not.. In a town this small, everyone knows everyone and what they're doing. Mostly, they ignore what
ain't
broke, but once the smoke went up, they found the fire starters they were after."

Trouble turned off the water; Gunny handed him a towel. "
Til
find you something to wear." He was back about the time Trouble finished shaving, a pair of slacks and a open-necked shirt thrown over his arm. "Courtesy of the hotel. They really were spooked by the fire yesterday." Trouble dressed quickly and followed Gunny downstairs. Captain
Umboto
, Ruth, her dad, the city manager, and a young woman named Cindy were sitting around a table with an empty chair. He filled it.

"You look a damn sight better," his skipper assured him.

"I feel a damn sight better. Amazing what a night's sleep and a shower will cure." Trouble winced as a dozen body parts disagreed with him.

"Try a couple of these," Mikhail
Shezgo
said. "Nurse swears these local herbs can cure anything overactive kids can get into."

Trouble took three of the offered green pills, then frowned at them. "I've already had mine," Ruth assured him. He swallowed them with apple juice.

"The hotel will give you anything you ask for," Ruth informed him, "but I recommend the hot oatmeal, unless your stomach is a lot tougher than mine."

He ordered oatmeal. The waitress was back with a steaming bowl, sprinkled with brown sugar and drowning in milk. The first spoonful was heaven.

"Mikhail was just telling us the bad guys really goofed yesterday with the fires. Anybody who had doubts about whether they needed stopping lost them real fast when they thought their home or business might go up in smoke."