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Chapter Thirty-Seven


The Hamain, R’Bak


The shuttle’s tilt-thruster nacelles ignited and began throttling up as Cutter and Tanavuna led their handpicked team into the payload section of the emergency shuttle. Those familiar with the procedure began strapping in. The others, most of whom had never been in a vehicle of any kind, were assisted by the SpinDog crew chief and mechanic. Along with the pilot, they were the only off-worlders who’d remained behind on R’Bak when the surveyors arrived, except for two helicopter pilots.

Half of Cutter’s section had been chosen because, of all the bands in the Hamain, they had the most familiarity with the high desert and regions south. However, they had never flown before; nor had half of the others. So when the thrusters roared and the shuttle rose straight up, they flinched and stared nervously at Cutter.

He simply nodded at them. They nodded back and sat at attention, agreeable smiles on their faces, but their eyes wide and unblinking. When the craft shuddered, buffeted by a crosswind, one of them swallowed audibly but all their eyes remained fixed on the opposite side of the fuselage.

Cutter had believed himself beyond surprise at anything that might happen in a shuttle—until he heard Colonel Murphy’s voice speaking to someone in the cockpit. Or, as the shuttle jockeys insisted, the bridge. “Egret Three, say again your ETA at Point Break One.”

“Ten mikes, Glass Palace.”

Cutter almost rolled his eyes. “Glass Palace” was Murphy’s code name, typically when he was on Spin One. The creative, even fanciful, names preferred by the post-World War II Lost Soldiers were far, far too fancy for Cutter’s taste. Lord, give me the old days when it was just Apple, Baker, Charlie.

“Roger that, Egret Three. Update on Roro Zero?”

“Secure at wharfside, ramp ready. Waiting on SHAEF.”

“Inform when SHAEF arrives Roro Zero, Egret Three. Glass Palace out.”

“Good copy all, Glass Palace,” came the reply before the radio connection cut out.

The pilot’s voice sounded concerned. “Turbulence ahead, Commander Murphy. Move with care.”

There it was again: a Hound-Dog calling Murphy “commander.” What the heck was that about?

If the colonel had acknowledged the pilot’s warning, it must have been a nod, because his next words were over the intercom. “Chief, is there a spare jump seat?”

“Two, Colonel,” replied the crew chief.

Cutter realized he was frowning as Murphy came back from the cockpit. “Why did you come along for the insertion, sir?”

“Wanted to talk to you, but not over the radio.” Murphy strapped into the seat the chief had folded down and locked in readiness for him. Normally sure-footed, the colonel almost tumbled into it.

“Talk about what, sir?”

“We’ll get there. First, can you think of any last-minute needs we left out of your TOE?”

Cutter frowned, shook his head. “No, sir. We’ve got everything that’s worth the weight to carry. And, assuming the supply caravan from Ikaan-tel got to the oasis at the south edge of the Hamain, we’ll have mounts and consumables waiting for us there.” Tyree made his caveat a statement, but he ended it in the tone of a question.

Murphy nodded. “The caravan signaled its arrival at the oasis about thirty hours ago, Captain Cutter. I presume you’ve had a chance to show our orbital mapping to the locals who traveled to Novy Malacca before the Searing?”

“I have, sir.”

“And do you stand by the last time estimate for your team’s arrival there?”

“I do, but I’ve still got serious doubts about how reliable any ETA will prove, sir. There are a lot of assumptions built into it. The biggest is that the weather won’t kick up and give us monsoons and high water to contend with, to say nothing of what you call super-saturated humidity levels. And since the only meteorological records we have for the area fall someplace between received wisdom and hearsay, any projections are little more than guesswork. We only have what we’ve observed going into the Searing and what the locals tell us—none of whom were alive for the last one.” He paused, then lowered his chin and his voice. “Sir, is there anything else I should know about Novy Malacca?”

Murphy glanced sideways at him. “Why?”

“Because my guys aren’t scared of much . . . but they’re scared of this. Almost no one travels down there, even in the best of times. But during the Searing?” Cutter shook his head. “Tanavuna asked if there was a classified objective I’d withheld. Made me wonder myself, sir. Granted we’ve had tough missions, but it’s hard to square up the danger of traveling there now with the lack of any obvious, immediate need.”

Murphy nodded slightly; his reply was barely above a whisper. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about in person. Vat found indications that Harvesters go there occasionally. No indications of how many or how often, but it’s possible they have a base in or around a city called Kanjoor. Assuming it’s not abandoned during the Searing, it could have a population partially or wholly descended from Kulsians who were either stranded or ‘went missing’ there during earlier harvests. If so, and if some of the surveyors know its location, or just rumors that it exists . . . ”

Cutter nodded. “Then any that can’t get to R’Bak might risk heading down that way.”

“And if they do, we need to know.”

“You want us to intercept them?”

Murphy shook his head. “You are not going to that region to engage the enemy, Tyree. Your primary mission is observe, report, and—if there are approachable locals—make contact with any population you might find in or around Kanjoor.”

“But if we see Kulsians, sir?”

“Assuming that ‘Admiral Squid’ Bowden has prevailed upstairs, then you break squelch. We will reply with the code set for further comms and you’ll give us their coordinates. You might have to keep the Kulsians in sight for a while, but I have no intention of putting any of you in a rainforest firefight. Pick up the pieces after we deliver a strike package, maybe, but no more than that.

“Hell, I regret having to send you farther south at all. I wish we could have put this off until we get a look at the data the Harvesters maintain on R’Bak from one Searing to the next. But most of that will come from any of their ships that are salvageable after the fleet action. Unfortunately, if we waited that long . . . ” Murphy concluded with an eloquent shrug.

Cutter smiled. “Yeah, that would kind of defeat the whole purpose of getting ahead of any Kulsians who might be southward bound.”

Murphy smiled back. “Yes, it would.”

Cutter sighed. “I always seem to get the real sweet assignments, the vacation spots. In this case a tropical isthmus.” He chuckled. “I’m hoping to put in some time at the beach, but I think I’m gonna skip the sunbathing.”

As if agreeing with his precaution, the combined light of 55 Tauri’s two suns came through a small porthole in the seaplane’s fuselage. The rays were so strong that it felt like a beam weapon hitting Cutter’s arm.

“Of course,” he added, “if there’s a flood or a monsoon, any of the terrain maps from the Dornaani microsats could be damn near useless. Our line of march could get washed out either behind or in front of us in a day or two. Then we’ll have our hands full just surviving.”

Murphy nodded. “Then you follow the OPORD: you break squelch on the frequency of the day. Supplies would have to be dropped. If you need to be evacuated, we should be able to pull you out with a Jacob’s Ladder. But given the elevation of your route, there’s little chance of conditions getting that bad.”

Cutter nodded. “Roger that, sir. But I also know how weather can change and radios can break and about a dozen other ways that simpler plans than this one can get fubared. So I’m just thinking ahead to our worse-case scenarios.”

Worse case?” Murphy repeated. “Never heard it put that way.”

Cutter grinned. “Sir, I’m just superstitious enough that I refuse to call any imagined foul-up a worst-case scenario, because—sure as shooting—fate will prove me wrong.”

As Murphy nodded agreeably, Tyree scanned his men’s gear. Almost all of them were carrying the ubiquitous M14 rifles that had been produced on the spin habs. The rest of their equipment was a mix of Lost Soldier spares, castoffs, and local clothes made for hot, swampy environments. “I figure we’ll do just fine the way we are. I just wish we knew more about the languages down there.”

Murphy nodded. “I have a little more information about that, too. According to Vat, all accounts of merchants who claim to have journeyed to, or from, Kanjoor, speak a fairly understandable hodgepodge of R’Bakuun and Kulsian.”

“Roger all that, sir. Anything else?”

“Just one thing.” Murphy smiled. “How about a home-cooked meal?”

Cutter started. “What?”

Murphy smiled and nodded to the crew chief, who pulled a thermal blanket off a hotbox lashed against the payload section’s aft firewall. At a nod from the colonel, he and his assistant began distributing sealed containers. Wisps of steam escaped along with the aromas of a rich stew.

Murphy nodded at the meals. “Might be the last time you see real food for a while.”

Cutter rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me.” He glanced at the colonel, making sure that the briefing had truly ended.

Murphy smiled, shook his head against the possibility of further needful conversation, and nodded at the misting container in the captain’s hands. “Mind the turbulence,” he warned.

Cutter nodded and dug into the food.

The last of his team lagged behind by almost as much as two seconds.


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