Chapter Thirty-One
The Greens, R’Bak
Just as Lieutenant Hax Uruns of the Second Mechanized Cavalry Band had expected, the freighter’s crew rose above the gunwale, axes poised to hack through the hawsers securing it to the dock’s sun-bleached bollards.
“Engage!” he shouted down into his own turret as well as his radio’s headset.
Commandeered Kulsian machine guns chattered from the external ring mounts of three nearby APCs. The heavier, hammering sound of a Lost Soldier .50 cal joined them a moment later, the chassis of the light ATV upon which it was mounted tremoring down against its rear shock absorbers.
Three of the crewmen fell, one with a chest wound that sent up a brief spurt of blood, some of which cleared the weathered gunwale. Twice as many of the freighter’s deckhands ducked down.
Uruns nodded, satisfied. “Check fire,” he ordered, not just using Harry Tapper’s words, but managing a fair imitation of his tone. “Three track?” he called into the headset.
“Three track here.”
“Keep your weapon trained on the superstructure. Aim away from the bridge but watch for shooters. You are weapons free. Confirm.”
“Roger that, sir.” The response sounded strange in a North Greens accent, but it was part of the legend of the Lost Soldiers. It was also a reminder of how profoundly their grim fortunes—as well as those of their brothers fighting in the Ashbands—had reversed and improved as a result of Harry Tapper and his comrades. But still, what is “Roger”? Or maybe . . . who is “Roger”? Wait: isn’t Colonel Murphy’s first name Roger?
Track Three’s commander was back on the tactical channel. “Are ammo protocols suspended, sir?” His words were fiercely eager; he’d lost family to the satraps and his vehicle—almost a tank—mounted a comparatively rare, and murderously effective, Kulsian rotary gun. Its projectiles were identical to those used by the majority of rifles taken from caches, and its withering deluge of fire was likely to break the morale of any opposing force, native or Kulsian. But the weapon devoured its precious ammunition as greedily as fang-frogs gulping down their own newly hatched fry.
“Negative, Track Three,” Uruns replied. “Ammo restrictions remain in place.”
“You are a miser, Hax.”
“That I am, Waals. Six out.”
No sooner had the comm channel snicked off than smoke gouted out the freighter’s stack. It could try to pull away from the dock while still lashed to the bollards, but doing so would not be a swift process and the ship itself was likely to sustain considerable damage. However, since its surveyor crew was now trying to flee for their lives, anything was possible.
Uruns brought his binoculars up and tracked down along the side of the vessel to the waters behind it. Two lateen-rigged dhows were rapidly approaching its stern. Rifles bristled out over their gunwales, but what still remained unseen were the Kulsian man-portable rocket launchers that would put an end to any escape attempt. They would not destroy the freighter’s propellers or their housing, but would likely damage them enough to convince the surveyors that they would never be able to get away in time. At the very least, it would take the crew that much longer to either snap the hawsers or pull the bollards out of the dock. And more time was exactly what the surveyors lacked.
The bridge’s weather-hatch opened slightly, but then leaned closed again without anyone appearing.
Uruns smiled. Prudent: instead of leaving the bridge upright, someone had crawled out, staying beneath the solid rail of the exterior walkway ringing the bridge. “Track Three—” he started.
“I see them,” Waals muttered.
To his credit, the surveyor who’d crept out had the good sense not to pop up near the door itself. And, fortunate for Uruns and his mechanized cavalry company, the crewman was apparently crawling away from the bridge, aftward along the superstructure. Sensible enough, since collateral damage to the helm might make it difficult or impossible to pilot the ship away from the docks. But it was also lucky for Uruns that neither the freighter’s officers nor crew had any reason to anticipate that their attackers’ greatest desire was to take the bridge intact, along with the rest of the ship’s primary operating systems.
Consequently, it was both a relief and good fortune when the would-be sniper popped up well behind the bridge, his long-barreled weapon suddenly tilting down over the solid rail.
Hax saw the glint of a scope, saw the muzzle turn in the direction of one of his APCs.
But the first sound of gunfire was the whirring roar of Track Three’s rotary machine gun. The first several rounds went low and wide. But before the sniper could duck back down, he, the railing, and the two portholes immediately behind him were thoroughly riddled. Faint maroon puffs dotted his torso as he fell from sight.
In the quiet that followed, Uruns gauged the stillness of the ship, imagined the loud and desperate debate taking place on the bridge, and judged that the time had come to call attention to his next step, just in case the surveyors had been too busy to notice. “Flare gun,” he called down into the compartment of his APC. The bulky pistol-shaped discharger was placed in his hand. He checked to make sure the flare’s coding was white not red and then fired it in a high arc, one that would be clearly visible from the bridge.
And also, to the dhow approaching the freighter’s stern.
The flare soared up, a bright speck that was the only moving part of the tense tableau. Several seconds later, a throaty cough and white rearward plume came from the foremost of the two dhows. Although Hax couldn’t see the impact, he heard water geyser up as the rocket struck the low swells just off the freighter’s free aft quarter.
He handed the flare gun back down. “Load red,” he ordered and watched the ship, but particularly the bridge.
He was still watching when the flare gun’s hinged breech snapped closed beneath him and its handle was placed back in his waiting palm. It would be a shame to damage the craft, but it had just received its last warning shot, albeit across the stern not the bow.
“How long do we wait?” asked his XO in Track Two.
“Not long.” And as if underscoring the predictive truth of Lieutenant Uruns’s reply, partially seen figures began moving hastily and furtively back and forth atop the superstructure.
“They’re readying another attack,” muttered Waals in Track Three, his tone exuberantly savage.
“Possibly,” Uruns said, “but I don’t think so.” Once again, he was proven correct; the radio tower’s flag line shook briefly and then tautened as it hauled a white flag aloft.
“Well, bugger them!” exclaimed Waals.
Hax spoke softly. “You have no reason to be disappointed.”
“Haven’t I? Those bastards killed my family. And I mean to kill ten for every one that they took from me.”
Uruns nodded, even though no one could see him do it. “And now that we have this ship, that’s exactly what you’ll be doing before too long. Have patience, my brother. We have acquired the greatest possible instrument for your vengeance.” He waved for Track Two to break squelch when it could do so safely.
“I don’t see how an old, modified surveyor ship could be used to avenge my family,” came Waals’s answer.
Which is as it should be, Uruns thought.
Until the time is ripe and the hour is upon us.
Spin One
Murphy turned off the rudimentary and very clunky SpinDog datapad. “Uruns just reported. As suspected, the freighter at Kaladar Reef is one that some earlier Harvester wave converted to a vehicle transport. That makes three we’ve grabbed.”
Bo Moorefield had seen the report over Murphy’s shoulder. “Uruns will load his Band there?”
Murphy nodded. “And two other mech cav units that will converge on Kaladar, now that we hold the port.” He smiled. “Is that enough for you, Major?”
Bo smiled back. “That may be more vehicles than we’ve got room for, Commander.”
Murphy’s eyebrow quirked. “‘Commander’? Have I been cross-posted to the navy and no one told me?”
Bo shook his head. “No, sorry, sir. It’s what they’re calling you, these days.”
“They’re not using it around me, whoever ‘they’ are.”
“I think it started with some of the RockHounds that Kevin’s training up. Spread to the SpinDogs and then to some of our folks who work with them. Seems to have particular significance to the locals, sir. I think it’s a more respectful title than Sko’Belm, but I haven’t asked about it.” He shrugged. “I get the feeling I might not get a straight answer, either.”
Bo was surprised when Murphy didn’t ask more questions; that was his standard operating procedure when presented with a mystery. The colonel just nodded. “How are the infantry numbers looking?”
“Again, probably more than we can transport, sir.”
Murphy smiled. “Some little birds have been telling me that all the tribal officers have to do is whisper your name and ‘Imsurmik’ in the same sentence, and they get more volunteers than they know what to do with. There are whole columns of them moving overland and along the rivers to get to the coast.”
“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration, Comm—er, Colonel.”
“I’m sure it’s not, Major. Cutter’s XO, Tanavuna, was quite specific about how it was your star-power that swelled the ranks.”
Praise, particularly of such a sustained and determined variety, had made Bo blush as a kid. He was worried it might happen now, so he pushed abruptly into the topic concerning him the most. “Colonel, you said you expected local intel on the target two weeks ago. Has it come in yet?”
“Mostly, but the physical signaling—our ‘rock-comms’—have a pretty slow data-rate. We’re still compiling details, but I believe I’ve got enough to help you start finalizing your OPORD.”
Moorefield nodded. “That’s a relief, sir. For a lot of my cadre, this is the first time they’ve been in senior leadership positions. Up until now, we’ve been able to use the Lost Soldiers as warrant officer/advisors for the R’Baku. But this operation will require their technical competencies in dozens of command positions. So it will help my cadre if we can start talking about operational specifics.”
Murphy nodded. “Which is why I’m reading you in. Some of the tactical intel is still in flux, so I may have to correct some of it later. But the logistics are pretty much set in stone.”
Bo folded his arms, looked at the maps and sheets on the planning table. “I’m ready to copy, Commander. Oh, damn. I mean—”
Before he could correct the slip, Murphy waved it away with a smile.
Moorefield saw genuine warmth behind that expression—something that Murphy rarely allowed to slip through—and his instinct told him this was a moment when he could ask the one question that might become thorny. “Rodg, just one question before we dive in.”
Murphy seemed to welcome the informal address; he just nodded.
Bo uncrossed his arms. “Why didn’t you make me part of the planning from the time we got word the Harvesters were coming early?”
Instead of frowning or acting uncomfortable, Murphy smiled. “Well, the planning actually started when we were still on R’Bak. And if I had read you in then, you would have wanted to stay behind. And if I had done that, I wouldn’t have survived.”
“What? Why?”
“Because your lady-wife Aliza would have killed me.”
Bo laughed. “Okay, I can’t debate that.”
Murphy’s face became serious. “Also, you needed to be up here. As you just mentioned, this is where your cadre is. And this is where you can be protected. We don’t have anyone with your experience and gifts—and now reputation—as a field commander.”
Murphy tilted his head in the notional direction of R’Bak. “Down there, it’s the Wild West. And now, outside the tribes themselves, we have no HUMINT worth a damn. The satraps that remain aren’t letting anyone into their towns; traders and merchants have to make their exchanges almost a kilometer beyond the walls. And what little intel we do get is relayed by methods that make tin cans joined by a string look high-tech.
“But the most important factor was that if we’d left you down there, the Hound-Dogs would have been idiots not to read the writing on the wall: that we had plans for a counterattack.”
“And what would have been so bad about that?”
“Too many primae would like to see the Otlethes Family not just fail but flame out. Some might even be willing to turn to the Kulsians.”
“That’s suicide.”
“You know that, and I know that. But not all of the Hound-Dogs can—or are willing—to believe it. There’s too much bad blood and too much fear that Anseker could evolve into an arch-autocrat. Besides, we needed to keep you safe up here, where you could build your staff.”
Bo smiled ruefully. “You mean, running almost all our ground-pounders through a slap-dash equivalent of OCS. Or, for the NCOs, a basic leadership course.” He frowned. “But keeping me safe? I could have hidden in the tunnels with the locals. That would probably have been safer than up here.”
“I’m not talking about the risks from the surveyors and satraps. I’m talking about saving you from yourself, Bo.”
“Whoa. Back up. You think you know me better than I do?”
“No, but it might be easier for me to foresee some of the consequences. Which I’ll prove right now. Let’s say you were hiding out planetside and the surveyors started a pogrom against the warriors you worked with—against their towns, their families, their kids. Maybe shipping them off as slaves, even. Tell me, Bo: Would you have been able to sit—secret and serene—in some cave while that went down?”
Moorefield looked away, detected—and stopped—an impulse to shift uneasily from foot to foot.
Murphy nodded slowly. “I’m glad to see you’re still a straight shooter, Major. Because I’ve seen—and admired—that you can only put up with so much injustice, so much brutality, before you have to do something. Your moral compass has a very active internal voice, so much so that when it begins talking the talk, you are compelled to walk the walk.”
Moorefield stared at the floor, hands on his hips. “Damn it, Rodg: I hate it when you’re right. Okay, point taken. So, you wanted to start with logistics?”
“Yes, although this is going to be a wave-tip overview; you’ll have a lot of reading to take away.” Murphy nodded toward several spreadsheets on the table. “Most of the dirtside logistics are well in hand. Locals are provisioning the infantry from the Ashbands and mechanized cavalry from the Greens as they arrive at their holding areas near the coast. They’re also adding to the campaign supplies, although the new equipment is pretty much a mixed bag.”
“Don’t I know it. But do we at least have decent weapon standardization?”
Murphy nodded. “All small arms are SpinDog remanufactures or autofabs. There’s more ammo than you could shoot through in half a year for the M14s and M60s. Good amount of grenades and .50 cal for the M2s. But beyond that . . . ?” Murphy put up his hands. “It’s the same come-as-you-are party you threw at the gates of Imsurmik.”
Bo frowned. “I thought we were going to have enough Kulsian knockoffs to equip a few elite shock units.”
Murphy nodded. “So did I. But when the Harvester fleet launched early, almost all the Hound-Dog autofabbing had to be dedicated to Kevin’s corvettes. That left damn little extra capacity, and what we had was diverted toward either replacing all the shuttles we lost during the first year, or landers modified to carry assault teams down from orbit. And since there was no longer enough time to train anyone on the new, and more advanced, Kulsian gear, the entire ‘shock unit’ concept got tabled.”
“Also keeps the logistical tail a match for what we’ve used thus far,” Moorefield added philosophically. “What about more helicopters?”
Murphy nodded. “We got a few additional ones built before the corvettes devoured all the remaining autofabbing capacity. But we really couldn’t use any more than those.”
Bo scanned the maps of R’Bak. “Respectfully, I beg to differ.”
“No, Major. I agree that we need more of them. But we can’t use more, because we don’t have enough qualified pilots and crew. A few stragglers are still finishing their simulator training, but after that cohort, anyone with the right aptitudes got pulled into crew slots for the corvettes. So there won’t be a lot of extra Hueys chopping the air on R’Bak. I’m just glad that we pushed the SpinDogs to overproduce them before the Harvester fleet became an issue.”
Moorefield pointed to the largest map on the table. “I’ll bet that has the biggest file of all.”
Murphy crossed his arms and nodded. “R’Bak Island is by far the toughest nut to crack on the whole planet. It’s not just the center of the Kulsians’ dirtside power; it’s the gateway and final collection point for almost all the Harvesters. Over eighty percent of what they gather is boosted spaceside from its downport.”
“Defenses?”
“Not many; they’ve never had to worry about attacks. It’s distant from any of the major landmasses and, so far as they’ve known, they were the only space-faring force in the system. They do keep a battery of two missile launchers for suborbital interception, and we know they have some shore guns, but that’s all.”
Moorefield rubbed his chin, studied the outlines of the R’Bak Downport. “Where are those weapons located?”
Murphy shook his head. “Back when we had assets, and commo links, on the island, those weren’t intel priorities. So we don’t know.”
Bo frowned. “Sounds like air assault or close support is off the table, then.”
“Until you locate and neutralize their missile batteries, yes. And we can’t be sure of the range of their SAMs, so it’s crucial to ensure that they can’t threaten any corvettes that might be at the upper edge of the atmosphere.”
Moorefield pointed at the city beyond the Downport; aside from three ruler-straight roads, it was a trackless tangle of narrow streets and twisting alleys. “That looks like fun.”
“Sure does. There is some good news, though. That’s satrap country, so you won’t run into surveyors or their equipment there. Their lapdogs do have some vehicles with armor and light weapons—the locals don’t have anything that could take them out, but they’d be meat for your tracks.”
“Assuming the locals even want to help us,” Bo grumbled.
Murphy nodded. “Some certainly do. Most are aligned with the Overlords; their bread is buttered by Kulsian money and influence, even when they’re not here. But their iron fist has killed a lot of people and bruised a lot of egos along the way. So while the underground movement isn’t that large, Vat’s intel says it’s very skilled. Has to be, to survive all the sting operations and other attempts to root them out.”
Bo glanced at the global map. “And once we’ve secured the island?”
Murphy shook his head. “That’s going to be shaped by what Cutter learns. As soon as you’ve taken R’Bak Island, he’s going south. Way south. Eventually, we’ll be putting some of our effort there.”
“Before we’ve finished consolidating the Ashbands and the Greens?”
Murphy shrugged. “If the satraps have no support from the Kulsians, the local Free Bands and irregular militias are eager to take matters into their own hands. I suspect our biggest challenge in those regions will be to make sure that their enthusiasm doesn’t become vengeance.” The colonel’s eyes lingered well south of those regions before he looked up with a small grin. “Now, it’s your turn to update me.” When Bo responded with a puzzled start, he clarified. “The whinaalanis—what have you learned?”
“Not as much as I’d have liked, sir. I dropped the file off with Makarov as I came in, but it’s pretty thin.” Moorefield frowned at the deck. “The one thing that I hadn’t known, but maybe should have, is that they actually don’t like to use what we’d consider ‘handy’ water sources.”
Murphy nodded. “Explain.”
“You know how they can climb, right? Almost like spiders, when they’re on short, vertical surfaces?” Murphy nodded again. “Well, I saw them get to water that way once, and now that I’ve talked to the other riders, it seems commonplace. They seem to prefer springs or other sources in high-altitude locations almost inaccessible to any other creatures—or us. Probably for safety, but those high-altitude spots are usually springs that don’t dry up during Searings.
“Two of my guys also noticed something that what we initially thought was food sharing. Whinnie adults feed their young pretty much the way some birds do: with food stored in a reserve gut. We thought it was odd when we saw adults share with each other, but these two riders discovered it wasn’t food they were exchanging—it was water. Seems the whinaalanis have some kind of sac that works a bit like a camel’s hump.”
Bo shrugged. “You put those two things together and you’ve got animals that can cross extremely arid areas by going from one permanent water source to the next, and are able to store reserves for the distances between them.”
Murphy nodded vigorously. “Which suggests that they must remember the routes between those water sources.”
Moorefield pointed to the map of R’Bak. “Combine that with the tunnel network that stretches across the continent and you’ve got a network to project and sustain extended offensive or defensive operations: either to outflank the Kulsians or to hide from them.”
Murphy studied the map, shoulder almost against Bo’s. “I’ve got to admit, I’m curious about those tunnels.” He straightened, smiling. “Hell, I might go there myself, one day.”
“Didn’t take you for the sightseeing type, Colonel.”
“You’re right, but I might make an exception for this. Are those the highlights of your report, Major?”
“They are, sir.”
“Then I won’t keep you from the singular treat of reading the full dossier on R’Bak Island.”
“I can hardly wait, sir. I’m sure I’ll have questions, though.”
“And I’ll look forward to you dropping by with them. See you soon, Bo.”
Moorefield saluted. “You will, sir.” After Murphy had lowered his own hand, Bo slipped back out the hatchway and bumped into—or, more accurately, off of—Max Messina.
The big bodyguard leaned down. “Colonel in a good mood, today?”
Moorefield nodded, whispered, “Yeah. A really good mood. You think he’s okay?”
Moose saluted Moorefield. “I’ll report back on that, sir.”
Bo chuckled, breezed past vinegary Makarov, and checked his chrono before leaving the ops center. With any luck, there would be enough time for him to catch dinner with Aliza.
* * *
Max slipped into Murphy’s office. “Hi, Boss.”
“Hi back at you, Moose. What’s the good word?”
Messina started. “You find a lost footlocker full of Twinkies, Colonel? You seem in fine spirits.”
Murphy waved away the big man’s perplexity. “Life’s too short to worry too much. What brings you by, Max?”
Messina held up a pausing finger, turned and drifted the hatch backward until it leaned against the coaming but was not shut. “Colonel, are you sure you don’t want me back on bodyguard duty? I mean, I understand why you sent me on the mission to grab the corvette. But that was months ago now, and . . . well, the tensions are running pretty high around here.” Murphy’s brow slipped toward a frown. Moose hurried to strengthen his case. “I mean, I know Janusz is a great guy—loyal, big as an ox, and absolutely uncorruptible. But . . . ” Max stopped as Murphy’s hand rose slowly.
“I do want you to return to bodyguard duties, Max. But not for me.”
Messina tried not to look crestfallen. “Then who, sir?”
Murphy pointed back out the hatch and beyond the ops center.
“Major Moorefield?”
Murphy nodded. “Bo is going to be heading back dirtside into a very hot situation. I need someone there to keep him alive while he kicks the Kulsians’ collective asses. And I can’t think of anyone better for the job.”
“But sir—”
“Thing is, you need to get there ahead of him.”
“There? You mean, R’Bak?” Max frowned. “Wait—ahead of him? Does that mean I’m gonna have to ride down in one of those reentry pods like Captain Cutter?”
“It does indeed, and there’s only one window left when we can get you in behind some debris. How soon can you be ready?”
Moose Messina sighed. “Whenever you need me, sir.”
As if you didn’t already know that.