“We can handle a good deal more than eight,” the sergeant replied. “My concern is whether there aren’t more of ’em out there than what Parker saw.”
“Either way,” Wash said, wanting to cut to the chase—there was no telling how much time they had before the doros arrived—“I take it we’re making a stand here?”
Shotton nodded. “This is as good a spot as any if it comes down to it. Better than most, actually. We can execute an effective ambush on anyone who follows us into this little defilade. How’s that for fancy words, Academy?”
Wash smiled. “Nicely done.”
“But what if there are more than eight?” Berlin asked. “Can we hold back a division, if that’s what the doros throw at us?”
The thought was ridiculous. Of course they couldn’t. But perhaps Wash’s friend was thinking of a platoon rather than a division. That would still be tough, but not nearly so impossible.
Rather than correct Berlin, Wash said, “If it comes down to fighting, we’ll know how many dog-men there are before too long. Let’s hope this is only a small scouting party and that the main force—if there is one—is still a good deal behind.”
“So that’s the plan in action,” Shotton said, crossing his arms. “Unless either of you have a better one in mind.”
Wash rubbed his chin. “I don’t see an alternative strategy to the one you’ve laid out, Sergeant. Where would the major and I be of the most use?”
“I got my marines arranged in a little V-shaped flytrap. If the dog-men keep coming from the direction Parker saw them last, they’ll walk right into it. But if they decide to go around the long way… bad news. I want you set up to watch our flanks and rear.”
“We can do that!” Berlin said eagerly. “And if we get the chance, we’ll open up on the doros as soon as we set eyes on them.”
Wash held out a staying hand. That was a perfect way to ruin an ambush. “Only if they approach from the direction we’re assigned to cover, Major. If they move into the ambush zone, it’s critical that we wait for the marines to take the shot.”
“Yeah. Of course,” the major agreed. Only Berlin would be so affable in being corrected by a junior rank. And Wash loved him all the more for it.
“All right,” Shotton growled, showing a certain relief in his eyes that the two appointed officers knew enough not to spoil the ambush. “Now it could be that they don’t actually have our scent. We’ve all got the funk of these mushrooms on us, and though the doros got better noses than us, they ain’t that much better. If that’s the case, I’d rather we sit tight and let them walk on by. If we can keep them guessing about where we actually are… that’s better’n dropping a few.”
Wash hitched his rifle over his shoulder. “Agreed. If we can keep our whereabouts hidden, let’s do it. Berlin and I will go set up. KTF, Sergeant.”
Shotton winked. “Ambush. That’s the idea.”
***
It was Denturo who first opened fire, though he hardly had a choice in the matter. The dog-men had moved quietly into the kill zone, but not in a single file. Instead, they had fanned out, walking abreast of each other, sweeping through the jungle like an advancing line of infantry.
There didn’t appear to be more than a dozen of them once they drew close enough to be viewed through the single optic starlight scopes the marines—and thanks to a friendly borrow, Wash—had attached to their helmets. Berlin, of course, had even better night vision in his Legion bucket. But without anyone to speak to over the L-comm, he was unable to communicate in the tense silence beyond elbowing Wash, pointing out new targets for him to spot.
It was hard for Wash to keep his eyes on his own sector when the offending doro—the one that forced Denturo to fire—crept toward the ambush line. The dog-man moved so close to the big marine, lying flat on the jungle floor, buried beneath a layer of dried leaves and rainforest moss, that if Denturo hadn’t fired, the doro would have stepped right on him.
Blaster fire erupted, lighting up the night and flashing in technicolor relief against the exotic plants of Psydon. Small creatures scurried into the underbrush as blaster bolts slammed into the doro trackers, catching them in a deadly field of converging fire.
The dog-men weren’t even afforded the chance to shoulder their blaster rifles, let alone return fire.
“Cease fire!” shouted Sergeant Shotton.
The call was picked up and repeated by marines in the ambush zone. The last blaster shot echoed its wayward report, sounding like a last bit of applause that had gone on just a little too long and was now awkward.
“I said cease fire, dammit!” Shotton yelled.
The jungle seemed to hiss as smoke rose up from the torn and charred bodies of the destroyed trackers. Tree bark and leaves smoldered as the heat from the blaster bolts slowly extinguished.
Everyone lay still for several moments. Listening. Straining their ears for some indicator of what to do next. Trying to determine whether more doros lay ahead, or if perhaps some dog-men had managed to avoid the ambush and were now scampering away in the jungle to acquire help.
But nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. Not even a groaning or whining among the dog-men who had been so thoroughly and ruthlessly cut down in the ambush. They were all stone dead.
Still the marines waited, listening in the predawn darkness.
Wash looked over at his friend. The two legionnaires had done their duty. They had refrained from firing and had protected the marines from any flanking maneuvers. Wash was proud of the self-control Berlin had shown. It probably wasn’t easy for him to just sit there, knowing he had the opportunity to rack up a still-higher kill count. Because the bigger he could make his legend on Psydon, the more likely he was to actually pull off his little trick of forcing his way into the House of Reason before the gatekeepers told him it was his time.
After several minutes of silence, Sergeant Shotton crept over to Berlin and Wash. “I think we’ve got the jungle to ourselves again,” he said, looking around as if to confirm the statement. “I sent Parker and Haulman out just to make sure. But if they come back and tell us that no one is around, I think we need to get moving.”
Wash agreed with this. Whether they’d encountered a probing scouting party attached to a larger force, or whether that small band was all the dog-men had for them in this section of the jungle… that wasn’t something they could know. Not until it was too late, anyhow. Staying around would do them no good.
“I’m with you, Sergeant. I don’t think anyone is going to get much more rest after this—”
“Speak for yourself,” interrupted Berlin.
Wash ignored his friend’s comment. “And all these dead doros are only going to attract more attention, either from their dog-men friends or from those dreex that have been stalking us. We should get a move on.”
“Yep,” said Shotton, gently patting his knees as he stood up from crouching. “I can’t do this crap forever. Fightin’ is a young man’s game.”
Shotton stretched out his back. He suddenly looked ancient to Wash.
Hoping to encourage the sergeant, Wash said, “We made it halfway to the peak before we stopped. Let’s see if we can get the other half done before sunup.”
12
Republic Army Firebase Hitchcock
Middle-of-Nowhere, Psydon
Subs was cooking in his portable, supposedly climate-controlled hooch. The air conditioning was broken, and all he could do was sit and sweat. Back in the day, he’d have seen this heat as an opportunity to abuse himself—to see how well his body could handle wind sprints and endless burpees as the temperature rose. But now…
He slapped his belly. Yeah, it was a belly, but there was a layer of rock-hard muscle below the surface. He’d be all right. He just had to tell the little bird that sat on his shoulder telling him to eat that extra slice of bread or drink that beer where it could stuff its feathers.
He wanted to find out more about this Major Berlin. Ideally he’d get the scoop from
his friends on Psydon, see if any of them had heard of the guy. But unlike virtually every moment of Subs’s life since he’d joined the Legion, in this moment there was no fellow leej to be found, and his long-range comms weren’t working. As a last resort, he’d tried to pull up his local copy of the Legion database on his datapad, to at least pull up the major’s basic details. But he couldn’t even do that, because his access code was out of date—and he couldn’t get the new code without speaking to another leej, none of whom were at hand.
Subs became overwhelmed by a sudden urge to stand, if not work out. He tossed his datapad aside and lunged out of his chair, his hot skin sticking to the leather-like material. He held sweaty arms out at his sides as if taking an air bath. All he was wearing was a pair of skimpy, black satin shorts affectionately called “silk diapers” by the legionnaires who wore them. And now the basics called them that, too, thanks to their exposure to Subs. Some had even ordered pairs of their own.
It wasn’t always a pretty sight around Firebase Hitchcock.
But in the Psydon evening’s oppressive humidity, Subs wished he weren’t wearing even the scant silk diapers. If it weren’t for his hooch’s location on the base’s main thoroughfare and the number of female officers who walked by his very see-through windows—these were unsealed and rolled down, since the climate controls didn’t work—the Dark Ops legionnaire would likely be strutting about with nothing but his complexion and his little leej to keep him company.
Not that the female officers would necessarily mind. He’d seen a few of them taking a lingering look at him even as he was dressed now. But the last thing he needed was to get in the doghouse during the final months of his tour because the wrong officer saw the wrong side of him. So Subs walked around in his silk diapers, strutting like a supermodel—even if his gut was a little too round. At least he still had his biceps. It would take a lot of carbs to cover up those rocks.
He decided to put a call into the base’s comm center. He’d made friends with the army comm tech who seemed to be always on shift.
“Hey, Alistair, you working tonight?”
It wasn’t the most professional way to communicate, but in a place like Hitchcock… things got a little lax.
“Oh, hey, Dark Ops!” came the reply. “Yeah, I’m here. Because… I’m always here.”
Subs smiled. The sarcasm felt good, like an old friend. Alistair was about the only person who didn’t tremble in awe at the sight of the mighty Dark Ops warrior on base. He regularly gave Subs a hard time, treated him with disrespect, made him feel like an idiot whenever he could… it was a lot like being with other legionnaires.
“You sound surprised to be on duty. Right now. At this exact time,” Subs said. “In the Legion, we check the duty rosters so that when our shift starts, we’re actually ready for them.”
“You’re hilarious. Really. Hey, when you get a chance to talk to all those legionnaires who kicked you out of their club and made you hang out with basics, will you ask them”—here, Alistair began to shout into the comm—“what’s the point of having duty rosters is if you’re the only comm tech on the whole stinking base!”
Subs laughed.
“Let’s see,” Alistair continued, “what day is it? Tuesday! Double shift! But that’s okay because on Wednesday and Thursday, there are more double shifts, which will set me up for the double shift on Friday. Then, on the weekend, a double shift!”
“Sounds like you’re afraid of a little hard work.”
“Oh, no. That’s not it. I just don’t know how to properly express my awe and appreciation over officers with such an amazing penchant for administrative genius.”
“Oh yeah,” said Subs, playing along. “I forgot that the Republic has had points in the army for years.”
“They’re the best. Bet you can’t wait for them to show up in Dark Ops.”
“Nah. They won’t show up there. Too easy to get dusted while assaulting a house.”
Now it was Alistair’s turn to laugh. “The frightening thing is, you’re probably serious.”
Subs was.
“So what can I do for you, brother?” Alistair asked.
“My long-range comms aren’t working. I’ve been waiting for them to come online for hours to reach a buddy serving at Legion Camp Roode. I was wondering if—”
“Wonder no further,” interrupted Alistair. “It’s not an issue with you, but with the base. Long-range comms are down, no matter how many happy thoughts I throw to the relay room. You’ll have to wait for Specialist Bucholz to get back from patrol.”
Subs walked around the room. He could actually feel the warm air passing between his toes. “Yeah. Speaking of which, I kind of expected them to be back by now.”
Alistair’s voice went small. “Oh. You didn’t hear?”
“Hear what?”
“They’re dead, dude.”
“What?”
A burst of laughter erupted from the comm. “Oh, Dark Ops! You were so earnest. I’m wiping away tears. You must really love all the little basics running around under your wings.”
Subs frowned. “You’re a jackass, Alistair.”
“I won’t let on about how much you really care.”
“So they’re all right?”
“Yeah. They’re fine. I talked to ’em on the short-range not long before you called. Should be here in under an hour. Just lots to do today.”
Subs ran his hands through his hair, pushing off sweat until his hands came away dripping as though he’d just stepped from the shower. “Well, I guess you’d better let me go. I’ve got a lot of waiting and doing nothing planned for tonight.”
“Roger that, Dark Ops. Me? I’m hoping that this double shift is the one that makes the army really proud of me.”
There was a time, when he was fresh out of the Legion Academy, that Subs wouldn’t have been caught dead joking around with a basic. The Legion was its own breed, the heartbreakers and life-takers, and everyone else wasn’t worth your time. But as the years passed, Subs came to realize that, regardless of which military branch they served, people were either cool or they sucked. No amount of Legion training could make a legionnaire who sucked fun to hang around with, even if he could KTF with the best of them. And the basics at Firebase Hitchcock… they were all pretty cool. Truth be told, Subs felt more of a kinship with guys like Alistair than he did with Legion command.
But what Subs had failed to tell his comm tech friend was the real reason he needed long-range comms: to ask his buddy for the Legion access code so he could look into this Major Berlin the SLIC pilots told him about. The Legion net had changed passkeys, and Subs was probably the only legionnaire with sufficient clearance who hadn’t been given a heads-up. His name had been dropped from the update list when he’d gotten hurt, and it had never been added back on. Which wouldn’t be so bad if he could just ask a leej buddy. But when he was out in the kingdom of the basics… that kind of oversight stung a little bit. Like he was forgotten. Like what Alistair had teased him about held more truth than was intended.
Subs looked over to his bed, which was made with drill instructor precision. It always had been, but it was easier to keep it that way now, given there was never a need to get beneath the covers—not in the Psydon heat. At the foot of his bed, in his trunk, was his legionnaire armor. He hadn’t worn it since first arriving at camp. He felt like a fish out of water among the basics as it was, and insisting on keeping in his uniform when he couldn’t even leave the wire wouldn’t win him any favors. It seemed like a prime way to get off on the wrong foot and make running down the clock on retirement more miserable than it needed to be.
Sure, the cooling system would be nice. But a little suffering along with others did wonders for harmony.
“I wonder if…” Subs said to himself.
He opened the trunk and retrieved his bucket. It was the built-in L-comm he was after.
Republic techs were always trying to expand the range of the proprietary communications netw
ork. Budget requests predicted that someday in the not-too-distant future, a leej’s bucket would be able to communicate with every other legionnaire on the planet so long as he had the right L-comm frequency. Not to mention constant contact with their supporting battleship overhead. The L-comm would be immune to jamming altogether. Someday.
It would be a welcome addition.
But for now, the best the L-comm could do was supply an ultra-secure private comm connection with any other L-comm device in range. That was better than what Subs had now over the base’s short-range comms, but still not enough for him to reach his buddy at Camp Roode.
But maybe…
He put his bucket on over his head, keenly aware of how ridiculous he must look: a half-naked man wearing only a silk diaper and a legionnaire’s helmet. Like some high-end advertisement for an overpriced cologne.
Subs spoke into the L-comm. “This is DO-13. Anyone have a copy?”
A hum, then a voice from somewhere on the other side. “I hear you. Challenge key?”
Subs recited the key—more of a pass phrase, really. “Six rendered truces wattle shellacked ruby nine.”
The doros couldn’t passably pronounce these phrases, no matter how much they wanted to. They’d proven surprisingly effective in keeping security tight over comms when needed.
“That was last week’s challenge.”
Subs shook his head. “Yeah, well, that’s kind of the reason why I’m reaching out, Leej. I’m stuck in one of the regular army’s corners of Psydon, and I’ve got no long-range comms to reach someone in Legion command who can help me.”
“Listen, buddy,” said the legionnaire voice at the other end. Subs could hear SLIC engines in the background. This legionnaire was probably either flying in, or more likely, coming out of a fight. “I’m not gonna broadcast the leej access code, even if it’s over L-comm.”
“No, hey,” said Subs, eager to clarify what he wanted. “That’s not what I’m after.”
Order of the Centurion Page 10