by Rick Shelley
The smell of wet earth, rich and sweet, caught Zel's attention. The novelty brought just an instant's amusement. Zel had been born and raised in the largest town on his homeworld. "Wild" smells had never touched him before as this one did. It was a welcome distraction until Zel realized that that was all it was—a distraction, something to keep his thoughts from returning immediately to his loss.
"Slee." He whispered the name so softly that no one could possibly have heard, but it was a whisper, more than a thought. This wasn't the first time that he had lost comrades in combat. It had happened before even here on Jordan. It had happened on Porter... and even back in training. But those losses could not compare to this one.
Memory brought back the emptiness, the ache. Tears rose in Zel's eyes. He brushed at them, slowly, then took a deep breath and rolled toward the front of his plane. There was no time for a proper period of mourning. There was still a war to be fought, and what remained of Blue Flight would soon be sent back up to take its part in the battle.
Zel didn't roll completely out from under his Wasp right away. It was still dark, and raining. He took a moment to orient himself. Then he scooted out, stood up, and made a quick dash over to where the support van was parked. Its outline was just barely visible at twenty meters.
Irv Albans and Jase Wilmer, the other two remaining pilots of Blue Flight, were standing together under an awning—a thermal tarp—draped off the side of the van. Jase's Wasp had been the one grounded by mechanical failure. It had been, somehow, repaired in the field, and was ready to go again.
"Get some coffee into you, Zel," Irv said. "Then call Major Tarkel." Goz Tarkel was the commander of the 13th's air wing, the only senior officer who had remained behind.
"What's the Goose want with me?" Zel asked as Jase handed him a mug of steaming coffee—prepared right there in the support van.
Irv hesitated before he said, "You're Blue one now," very softly.
That brought Zel to a full stop for a moment. The knot in his stomach seemed to double in size. Finally, he took a too-long drink of the hot coffee. It scalded his mouth but did serve to get him thinking again.
"Sorry, Zel," Irv said. "I know how close you were." Irv had been with Blue Flight since before Porter. Jase had joined the 13th after that campaign—replacing another dead pilot.
"Yeah." Zel couldn't think of anything else to say. He took a more cautious sip of coffee. Somehow, the crew chiefs always managed to find real coffee to brew when the rest of the 13th had to make do with the reproductions that molecular replicators came up with. Nanofactured food and drink was supposed to be identical to its "natural" prototypes, but, somehow, that never worked with coffee. Zel could always tell the difference.
He took time to enjoy at least the first half of his coffee before he put on his helmet and called the major. Pilots' helmets weren't as heavily equipped with radio channels as mudder helmets—the Wasps carried the bulk of their communications gear—but there were a few channels available.
"You got that sleep patch worked out of your system?" Major Tarkel asked. The Goose sounded as if he were still more than half-asleep.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. You're Blue Flight commander now. You've got... twenty-seven minutes. Blue Flight is going out to the 13th. You'll operate from there for the time being. Major Parks will be your immediate boss while you're out there. He'll tell you what they need."
"Yes sir."
"Good luck, Zel."
Good luck. We'll need it, Zel thought as he took his helmet back off. He glanced at his watch, as he had when the major gave him twenty-seven minutes. Twenty-six now. He told the others what they had to look forward to.
"Sounds hairy," Jase said.
"You can bet on it," Zel said, draining his mug. Irv took the mug and refilled it. "Slee and I talked about it before..." That brought an awkward pause. To cover it, Zel waited for the second cup of coffee and his first sip from it. "When we heard that some of the support crews would be out there. We'll play hell getting even fifteen minutes to sleep if we've got to keep hopping around with the mudders. The only time we'll be able to count on staying down longer than it takes to service the Wasps is when—if—they settle down, and even then only if there's no immediate threat that needs us in the air. I hope both of you managed to get some sleep tonight."
"We did," Irv said. "After you were out, the major told us to sack out as long as we could, that we wouldn't be going up before morning." He looked at the sky. "I guess this is as close to morning as we get." Dawn was still nearly an hour away.
Zel moved to the edge of the awning. The rain was slackening off even more. It was hardly more than a heavy dew now. At least the sky was heavy enough to keep any sounds of war at a distance. The pilots were far enough from the front lines that they couldn't hear any small arms fire, and even after listening closely for a couple of minutes, Zel didn't hear anything heavier than that.
"Heard anything about the fighting here?" he asked.
"Nothing close," Irv said. "For the rest..." He shook his head. There was just barely enough illumination in the night sky for Zel to see the gesture. "All we get is rumors, confusing and contradictory."
"Nothing very good," Jase said. "The big talk is that we might have to evacuate Jordan."
"Give up?" Zel asked.
"Give up," Irv confirmed. All of the pilots knew that the invasion had not gone according to plan. By now, there was supposed to be nothing left to do but finish mopping up any last pockets of enemy resistance. It was a sour joke, when there was time for jokes.
"If you haven't eaten, now's the time," Zel said after a minute. It was hard for him to start thinking like a flight leader. Ever since joining the 13th, he had been Slee Reston's wingman. Slee had made the decisions for both of them, back when they were Blue three and Blue four, and then Slee had gained the entire wing when he became Blue one and Zel became Blue two.
Zel didn't want to be Blue one. It wasn't just that he didn't want to be succeeding his best friend; he simply didn't want to be responsible for other pilots.
"We ate once," Irv said. "We were waiting for you to get up before we had another breakfast. You'd better get a couple of meals in you while you've got the chance. Mealtimes might be few and far between once we're out hopping around with the mudders."
Zel nodded, absently. He moved around to the rear of the van. There was a case of meal packs there. He picked two and pulled the self-heating strip on one of them. Appetite or not, he had to eat.
—|—
Although he did not check the time immediately, Gene Abru had no doubt that he had awakened precisely at the end of the two hours he had allotted for sleep. He was alert even before he opened his eyes, listening to the sounds of the late night. Then he lifted his head just enough to look to either side. The other members of his team were also waking, and going through much the same routine as Gene—almost totally silent. There were no loud yawns, no creaking of bones as men stretched.
There was nothing to be seen around them but the scattered trees. Not even a single animal seemed to be moving anywhere near them. If there were any birds on the wing, they were silent and could not be seen. The ridge line above the SI team was clearly silhouetted now. On the far side of the mountain, morning dusk would already be well advanced. Dawn would not be far off.
"Eat fast," Gene said, just loud enough to be certain that the others would hear. He was already pulling a meal pack out for himself. It took ten seconds to warm up after he pulled the strip. He wouldn't have bothered except that the strip also served to open the pack. By the time those ten seconds had elapsed, Gene was already chewing his second mouthful. He sat hunched over, trying to keep as much of the drizzle as possible from finding its way into his food. With his visor tipped up and the meal pack held close to his face, he was mostly successful.
He was the first finished. Using his knife, he scooped out a small hole and buried his trash. The others did the same. The covered-over holes were camoufla
ged as best they could be in the waning dark. There was little chance that anyone would stumble over the buried refuse.
Gene took time to check his rifle and pistol, then got to his feet. The rifle was an Armanoc zipper, the same carbine that most of the infantry carried. The pistol used the same sort of rocket-assisted projectile as the Dupuy cough gun. Each of the men had the same pair of weapons, plus knives and an assortment of grenades and "special" explosives.
Once they were all on their feet, Abru simply nodded to the others, then started walking. He figured that they would need about twenty minutes to get into place. He had a special channel available on his helmet radio. That was reserved for one purpose... and one-time use. When they got close, he would use it to tell the people inside the lab that they were there, that it was time to go. That notice was mostly to keep anyone inside from shooting when the SI team appeared.
Nine people, Gene reminded himself. They had been told that there were nine people waiting for pickup, the three primary researchers and their six assistants. If they found more than nine, something was wrong—dangerously wrong. It might not be wise to shoot first and ask questions later, but the temptation would be there. And if there were fewer than nine people waiting, Gene would want to know what had happened, see a body if there was a body to be seen. Being suspicious came naturally to Gene Abru. He had been that way long before his assignment to Special Intelligence had made it a matter of survival.
The team walked single file now, each man stepping, as far as possible, exactly where the man in front of him had stepped. That was standard drill. If an enemy should happen to find their trail, it would be impossible to guess exactly how many men had passed.
It took no more than ten minutes to reach the shoulder of the mountain. Gene stopped and went prone, bringing up his binoculars to get a better look at the narrow break in the side of the mountain that concealed the entrance to the secret lab... and to get a long look at all of the approaches. From this vantage, he could see a lot of the valley. There were no signs of any large force lying in wait. Gene still did not discount the possibility of ambush, or treachery. He took as long as he dared to scout out the terrain. This close, he thought he could even see the doorway to the lab, but he wasn't 100 percent certain. It was concealed well, back under an overhang, in what was almost a cave.
Damn good planning, he thought, with grudging respect for the forethought that had gone into the planning and construction of the lab. Remarkable for a world that had been at peace at the time. Before the Schlinal Hegemony had started its military push into Accord space.
And, once more, the thought intruded: Just what the hell are they working on that took so much secrecy? If there were time, even thirty seconds, Gene knew that he would look around for any obvious clues. He didn't really expect to see much. If the lab itself were likely to give away the secrets of the researchers, he would have had orders to blow it up, not just to get the people out. Or dispose of them.
Maybe the researchers had already prepared explosives. With all of the care that had gone into selecting the location, Gene had to admit that some provision might well have been made for its destruction, but he couldn't really make himself believe it. That was too much to expect on a world that had never known war.
Gene let out a slow breath and slid away from where he had made his observations. It was time to go over the final details of the plan with the others.
"Asa, you'll come with me. We'll make the contact and go in." Asa Gooding. "Ben, you and Vel stake out good positions to cover that nook, two different angles." Ben Howard and Vel Zimmer. "Mac, you get up and back, cover our tails." Robert "Mac" MacDonald.
The others nodded. Ben and Vel got up just enough to start looking for their covering positions. Mac moved away from the others, toward the ridge line behind then.
Gene and Asa started moving forward, cautiously on the slope, but not slowly. Mountain climbing was part of the ordinary training for Special Intelligence teams. The two men picked out their path, deciding in advance just where each step would take them. The slope wasn't steep, nor the rock rotten enough to pose any great threat. There was no need for a line between them, or any climbing gear. They were able to keep a rifle in one hand and use the other hand, occasionally, for balance, or to guide them past a minor obstruction.
The entrance to the secret lab was two-hundred meters—direct line—from where Gene had done his last visual search. On the ground, Gene and Asa covered three times that distance. Gene waited until the two of them were just outside the hollow before he switched to the special radio channel and made his call.
"Gopher, this is Hedgehog," he said after two sharp clicks on the channel.
It took nearly a minute before there was any response. Gene had watched the seconds tick off closely. If there were no answer to his first call, he was to wait ninety seconds before calling again.
"Hedgehog, this is Mole." The change in call sign was a gimmick, part of the recognition process.
"Amanda Pays sends her regards." Gene wasn't bothered at all by the ridiculous-sounding code sequence. It was one that would be impossible for any enemy to stumble on. To the best of Gene's incomplete knowledge, only four people—besides himself—had been aware of it—the three senior researchers inside the lab and Colonel Stossen.
"We got her roses" came from inside, the code that all was well. Anything else would have been a danger signal.
"Coming in," Gene announced. He ran the last twenty meters, with Asa right behind him. Both men had their rifles at the ready, safeties off. Despite everything, it seemed wise to be ready for anything once the door opened.
There were no signs of footprints, no evidence that people had ever been in the cul-de-sac that held the door to the lab, except for the door itself, and that had been camouflaged, by a false rock facade over the actual door and frame. Although he had been given no instructions on the door, Gene thought that he saw the obvious handle, a place where you would have to reach up under a small overhang.
Gene used his left hand. The right held his rifle. There was a bar under the overhang. He pulled back on it, then tugged on the door. It came open with surprising ease, silently.
Asa was off to the side, the muzzle of his zipper pointed directly into the opening.
There was no light inside, and at first, the two SI men had difficulty seeing. Had it not been for the infrared sensors in their night-vision gear, they would have been unable to see at all.
Asa went in first. Gene covered him, then followed.
They were in a cave then, a large chamber that had been left natural but for the door they had entered through, and another door at the back, near the left wall, about eight meters from the first.
That door opened, slowly. One figure, dressed in loose coveralls, stepped through the opening, moving with exaggerated slowness, hands held high and out to the sides.
Very obviously a female figure.
CHAPTER TEN
Dawn brought a professional paranoia to Joe Baerclau. Light was more an enemy than a friend, particularly a thousand kilometers behind enemy lines. Echo Company had covered nearly two-thirds of the length of the narrow valley. If Heggies appeared now, there would—literally—be no place for the 13th to run, and little solid cover. They would be caught on the slopes flanking the valley, easy targets for enemy aircraft or artillery. Enemy mudders on the ridge lines could mow them down. A force back at the entrance to the valley, strong enough to hold down the two companies left to guard it, could pin them in place and allow their leisurely destruction.
Joe felt his mouth getting dry, but he didn't waste time wishing that he had less imagination. The best way to avoid getting caught in an untenable position was to work out all of the possible traps in advance, and do whatever could be done to counter them.
Unfortunately, the only way Joe could see to avoid all of the potential hazards in this valley was to avoid the valley itself, and it was far too late for that, even if their orders had permitted i
t.
Joe spent most of his time scanning the ridge lines on either side. Those were the most likely places for any threat to appear. Reccers were, supposedly, in place up there, watching the reverse slopes and the air approaches. But only half of the 13th's recon platoons remained with the Team, too few men to adequately cover so many kilometers. The rest of the reccers... Joe swallowed hard and shook his head. There were rumors that one battery of Havocs and both of the recon platoons that had been sent to harass the enemy had been wiped out. Even on the march, scuttlebutt like that could not be totally suppressed.
"Joe, we're going on up to the ridge line," Izzy Walker said. "Start your platoon up first."
Joe acknowledged the order, then switched channels to get the men turned. Climbing three hundred meters of slope was work, but it was easier on bodies than walking along the slope. Near the top, there were a couple of spots where it was almost real mountain climbing, but most of the path was relatively mild. There were trees all along the way, extra handholds and footrests when needed. Near the top of the mountain, the trees were puny little things, scarcely man-high, with trunks no thicker than Joe's ankles. Many looked as if they could be pulled out with very little effort.
Joe found a place for himself where he could look through a notch between two high, jagged rocks, to survey the reverse slope of the mountain. That far side was far more rugged than the one that Echo had been traversing. Rocky and steeper—but it might still allow enemy mudders access, if they were coming that way. The rocky slope would even provide decent cover for an attacking force.
I'd rather be attacking up that slope than trying to stop that attack, Joe concluded. An enemy might close to within forty meters of the ridge before they would be exposed to much wire.
He scanned the slope as carefully as he could but found little relief in the fact that he didn't see any enemy soldiers climbing toward him. He pulled back from the ridge line and spent a couple of minutes making sure that each squad was just where he wanted it, the men in the best positions available.