The FTD was summoned. It sniffed the head, scanned the ground, and took minute samples. But when the process was over, the machine wasn’t able to tell the humans anything they didn’t already know.
As the sun rose, the head was given a burial next to the road, a metal marker was driven into the ground, and the battalion departed. The marching order was the same, it was a nice day, and it wasn’t long before McKee had adjusted to the now-familiar rhythm of Weber’s movements.
Because there were some false alarms during the first few hours, everyone was on edge. But the fears began to fade as miles passed and the sun rose higher in the sky. Drones passed over occasionally but had nothing of substance to report.
Then, after a brief stop for lunch, the battalion ran into the first problem of the day. A river designated as 6452 flowed west to east, was at least three feet deep, and running along at a very good clip. That was the bad news. The good news was that a sturdy-looking wooden bridge offered an easy way to cross it. But was it safe to do so? The battalion came to a halt as the brass discussed the situation. The first platoon was on point again, which meant McKee was close enough to hear some of the conversation.
Spurlock was in favor of sending a Scorpion over. Then, if it survived, the rest of the battalion would follow. Avery thought the plan was too risky and pointed out that if they lost an armored car, they would be losing its offensive/defensive capabilities as well, making the entire unit more vulnerable. McKee had the feeling that Spurlock would have rolled right over him had the legionnaire been a Gray. But the militia officer knew Colonel Rylund was likely to side with one of his own—so he let Avery have his way. Even if the decision was delivered with a grudging, “All right get on with it then . . . But remember. Time is of the essence.”
A few moments later Kaylor and her T-1 appeared at McKee’s side. The platoon leader’s visor was raised, and she was smiling. “Can you swim?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Captain Avery thinks it would be a good idea to take a look at the underside of the bridge before we cross it. And I told him that you were expendable. Keep an eye out for explosives—and watch the current. Oh, and one other thing, Captain Avery will be riding shotgun via your helmet cam.”
Why us? McKee wondered. The expendable thing was a joke. Or so she assumed. Had Avery requested her? Or had the choice been Kaylor’s? She would never know. All she could do was say, “Yes, ma’am.”
Weber gave his fifty to another ’borg in order to keep his graspers free. The T-1 followed a gently sloping beach down to the fast-flowing river. The water broke white around the beams that held the bridge up. And as Weber waded out into the flow, McKee stared up into a maze of crisscrossing supports. Captain Avery’s voice sounded in her helmet. “Be on the lookout for command-detonated explosives, a mine hooked to a pressure plate on the bridge deck, or something more primitive. Like partially sawed through timbers for example. Stay sharp. Over.”
“Roger that, sir. Nothing so far.”
The next voice she heard was Weber’s. He was speaking over their intercom rather than the squad push. “The current is pretty strong. Be ready to bail if I go down.”
The water was up to McKee’s knees by then, and it was cold. Weber was correct. It wouldn’t feel very good if the cyborg fell on top of her. But the alternative wasn’t all that attractive either. Once free of the harness, and in the frigid water, she would be swept downstream into the rock garden below. “Thanks, but no thanks,” McKee replied. “Stay vertical please.”
They were out in the middle of the river by then, with Weber leaning into the current, as McKee studied the beams above. They were clear insofar as she could see—but what about the topmost surfaces? They were invisible. She chinned her mike. “Echo-Four to Echo-Nine . . . Over.”
Avery was quick to respond. “This is Nine. Go. Over.”
“I know the FTD wasn’t designed to provide surveillance,” McKee replied, “but maybe you could use it to get a top-down look at those beams. Over.”
There was a pause, as if Avery and the other officers were discussing the idea, followed by a burp of static. “This is Nine. Good idea. Over.”
McKee felt a momentary sense of pleasure, but it was short-lived as Weber put his left foot into the crevice between two rocks and fell sideways. She had her hand on the harness release when the T-1 slammed into a vertical support. Fortunately, he was able to grab hold of it and keep from falling farther. Then, when he had regained his footing, they were able to continue.
Meanwhile, the FTD was flying above them and darting in and out as Avery and the others monitored what it “saw.” Five minutes later, McKee and Weber emerged from the river and made their way up onto the south bank. She knew people could see her but felt obliged to make a final report. “This is Echo-Four. I saw no explosives or signs of sabotage. Over.”
McKee heard a click, as if Avery had opened his mike with Spurlock talking in the background. “I hope you’re satisfied, Captain. We would be ten or fifteen miles down the road by now if it weren’t for this nonsense.”
Then Avery spoke. His voice was empty of emotion. “This is Nine. Copy that Four. Over.”
McKee felt sorry for Avery. Checking the bridge had been the right thing to do. She felt certain of it. But Spurlock was in command, so it was his opinion that mattered.
It was only a matter of minutes before the first platoon crossed the bridge, followed by the command car, and the first Scorpion. Then, with no warning other than a muted crump, the second armored car took a direct hit and blew up. Fortunately, the intervals were such that the vehicles ahead of and behind the Scorpion suffered only minor damage.
McKee was still trying to understand it, still wondering how she had missed seeing the explosive charge, when Kaylor shouted “Mortar!” over the platoon push, and Avery called for counterfire. Each cyborg was equipped with a variety of sensors plus an onboard computer that could be networked with all the rest. So what one of their processors knew, all of them knew. Lighting-fast calculations took place, targeting data was uploaded to four shoulder-mounted SLMs, and the rockets sleeted into the air a few seconds later.
The explosions overlapped each other to create a muted roar, smoke billowed up into the sky about half a mile to the south, and the incoming fire stopped as suddenly as it had begun. But the damage had been done. A Scorpion had been destroyed, four marines were dead, and one was wounded. McKee watched with a heavy heart as the second armored car pushed what remained of the first off the bridge so that the rest of the battalion could get through.
“The bastards had the bridge preregistered,” Kaylor said bitterly as she and her cyborg stopped next to McKee and Weber. “All they had to do was wait for a juicy target. And, so long as there were only two or three of them, the drones wouldn’t be able to pick their heat signatures out from the surrounding clutter.” McKee, who was still learning tactics and strategy, took the comment for what it was: a lesson.
There were questions, however, including who had fired the mortar, and why. The answers came half an hour later when the FTD returned from the point where the SLMs had landed to report that human remains were scattered about the site. The robot estimated that there had been three of them—but wasn’t absolutely sure given the extent of the carnage.
That suggested that, after Naoto Jones passed through, a trap had been laid for the purpose of delaying any pursuit. And it worked. Because by the time the marines were buried, and some minor repairs were made to the bridge, half a day had been lost.
The good news, if any, was that Avery had been correct about the bridge. Not the exact nature of the threat. But right nevertheless. That was cold comfort however.
The rest of the day went well until one of the trucks broke down. After some diagnostic work, the techs announced that they could fix the problem in two hours. But having been subject to so much de
lay, Spurlock refused to wait. So Avery was forced to leave the third squad, second platoon, to defend the truck while the rest of the battalion continued south. “Well, we ducked that shit detail,” Weber said as the first platoon fell in behind the last truck.
“Yeah,” McKee agreed. “Now we get to walk drag. We’re the lucky ones.”
Weber made a rumbling sound that McKee knew to be laughter.
As the march continued, the winding ribbon of road carried the battalion up and over a succession of vegetation-clad hills. A few hours later, the sky grew cloudy, flashes of lightning could be seen off in the distance, and the air felt increasingly humid. McKee was debating the merits of putting on her rain slicker when Kaylor’s voice invaded her helmet. “The second squad will fall out and stand by . . . I have a job for you.”
Weber groaned. “I knew it was too good to last.”
The battalion continued down the road as McKee and her legionnaires broke formation and made their way over to the spot where Kaylor was waiting. A case of MREs was sitting on the ground next to her cyborg’s feet. “Okay, people, here’s the situation. A navy drone spotted some wreckage about three miles east of here. According to the report, the crash must be fairly recent because there was a fire, and the surrounding foliage hasn’t had time to grow back. Trouble is that we aren’t missing any aircraft—and the loyalists aren’t either. That means it could be a reb aircraft of some sort. And who knows? Maybe the governor was on it.
“So we’re sending you out for a look-see. Once you arrive on the site, scope things out, collect any Intel you can, and report in.” Kaylor paused to look up at the sky. She blinked as the first raindrops hit her face. “The weather is deteriorating—and you’ll have to stay the night. Be careful out there. McKee will divvy up the MREs, then you can get going. The coordinates have been downloaded by now.”
McKee felt a strange combination of fear and excitement as she released her harness and jumped to the ground. The fear had to do with the amount of responsibility involved. Was she up to the task? The anticipation stemmed from the opportunity to break away from the column and operate on her own. “Oh, and one more thing,” Kaylor added. “We’re sending the FTD along to examine the crash site. Any questions?”
The robot arrived right on cue and hovered next to Kaylor. McKee kept her face blank as she looked up at Kaylor. “No, ma’am. No questions.”
Kaylor offered a jaunty wave as her cyborg turned and took off. The T-1 would have to run in order to catch up with the battalion. Suddenly, there was a clap of thunder, the skies opened up, and a deluge of rain fell. McKee was on her own.
CHAPTER: 11
* * *
A patrol leader can take his men a mile into the jungle, hide there, and return with any report he fancies.
SIR WILLIAM SLIM
Defeat into Victory
Standard year 1956
PLANET ORLO II
Raindrops landed on the leaves over McKee’s head, where they coalesced into fat globules and fell like miniature bombs exploding on her helmet and shoulders. Taken together, they produced a soft roar that was almost enough to drown out the rhythmic whine of Weber’s servos.
There was no trail, so all Weber could do was follow the FTD between the forest giants that towered hundreds of feet above. It wasn’t that the globe-shaped robot was determined to lead the way. It was homing in on the coordinates downloaded from the navy—and seemingly intent on reaching the crash site regardless of what happened to the legionnaires.
McKee and Weber were on point, followed by Chiba on Poto, Singh on Kinza, and Larkin on Hower. Their sensors were on max as lightning flashed above, thunder rolled across the land, and rain lashed the foliage around them. Powerful though the cyborgs were, she knew they could be overwhelmed by a massed attack. But she figured that an ambush was unlikely since they weren’t on an established trail.
Eventually, the FTD led them out of the forest and into a clearing. The remains of some thatched huts occupied the center of the open space, surrounded by what might have been gardens but were now thick with weeds. A Droi settlement? Abandoned months or even a year earlier? McKee assumed so as Weber crossed to the other side and reentered the forest.
Branches brushed past, wetting her slicker in the process, as Weber splashed through a fast-flowing creek and up a low bank. Then they headed uphill, past a mist-shrouded rock formation and onto a scree-covered slope that made for uncertain footing. The cyborgs struggled to stay upright as the pieces of wet shale slip-slid downhill and threatened to take them along.
Finally, having achieved the summit, McKee called a halt and ordered Weber to check their position. The FTD was probably correct—but what if it wasn’t? Rather than take that chance, she thought it best to double-check. And as Weber verified their location via a satellite, the FTD kept going. Moments later, it disappeared. That was annoying, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it other than contact the robot by radio and request that it return. But when she did so, there was no reply. Was there some sort of com problem to blame? Or did the robot have the capacity to ignore her? McKee didn’t know.
After the two-minute break, it was time to make their way down the other side of the hill. That process proved to be as difficult as climbing up it had been. Only this time it was necessary to contend with mud rather than shale. Weber swore as he lost his footing and was forced to execute a series of leaps in order to maintain his equilibrium. All she could do was hang on to the grab bar and bend her knees to absorb a quick succession of shocks.
The others had similar difficulties, and it was a miracle that none of them took a serious spill. Once on the forest floor, Weber led the squad through head-high thickets of vegetation that reminded McKee of bamboo. And that was when she heard a clap of thunder followed by what might have been a distant rifle shot. Except that the two sounds came so close together it was hard to tell if there was a difference.
Weber turned into a small stream after that. It served as a highway for a while until they had to bear right in order to stay on course. Then they entered a blight-ravaged area where the trees had been stripped of foliage. Now they stood like jagged splinters against the gray sky, shoulder to shoulder in a spooky wasteland. And that was where they found the FTD. Weber gave the alert over the squad push. “Echo-Four-Five to Four-Four. I have a fix on the FTD. It’s about four feet off the ground at two o’clock. Over.”
McKee held up a hand to slow the others and peered through the gathering gloom. As they closed on the object, she could see that Weber was correct. The FTD was hovering just above the ground, waiting for them. Or that was how it appeared until they were ten feet away. Then she realized that the robot was impaled on a stick. The hunter’s decapitated head came to mind as she said, “This is Four-Four. Look sharp everybody . . . We’ve got company. Over.”
As the squad took up defensive positions all around, she freed herself from the harness and dropped to the ground. Then, mindful of the need to record what she saw, McKee activated her helmet cam. Once they got back, she would have to file another after-action report, and a picture was worth a thousand words. Meanwhile, she knew it was important to look for trip wires or any other indication that the FTD had been booby-trapped.
There was no response when McKee spoke to the machine, and the reasons for that quickly became obvious. A hole could be seen where a large-caliber bullet had penetrated the robot, and an equally sizable exit wound was visible on the opposite side of its body. And that was to say nothing of the sharpened stake upon which the FTD was impaled.
McKee felt a prickly sensation between her shoulder blades as she did a slow 360. They were being watched, she felt certain of that, even if the rain was interfering with the accuracy of the team’s infrared sensors by cooling everything down. “So what now?” Larkin demanded. “This place is spooky.”
“Four-Two will use proper radio procedu
re,” McKee said as all sorts of thoughts flickered through her mind. What, if anything, had the FTD “seen” prior to being hit? Maybe it was still there, resident in the robot’s memory, waiting to be accessed. The mere possibility of that meant it was her duty to pull the machine’s CPU and take the device with her.
But what sort of information had the FTD acquired since the battalion departed Riversplit? Data about her perhaps? Gathered at Jivv’s request? Or just gathered. Because that was what the robot was designed to do. The decision seemed to make itself. “This thing is too big to carry, and we can’t leave tech laying around, so Echo-Four-One will destroy it. Then we’re out of here. Over.”
That was the moment when McKee feared one of her team members would suggest that she jerk the CPU, but none of them did, and she felt a sense of relief as Singh attached a small charge to the robot. Then, once they were a safe distance away, he thumbed a remote. There was a flash of light followed by a loud bang. The FTD and whatever it knew was history.
“Okay,” McKee said, “keep your heads on a swivel. And max those sensors. Over.”
There was a series of double clicks by way of a response as Weber led the others into the forest. McKee had more reason to worry about the possibility of an ambush at that point because the enemy knew they were present and could guess where they were headed. It would be easy to calculate a line of march and lie in wait for the legionnaires. But by moving quickly, she hoped to reach the crash site before the opposition could get organized.
Unfortunately, what light there was had begun to fade, adding even more urgency to the situation. They were going to spend the night, and that meant she’d have to find a spot that the squad could defend. A task best carried out during the day when one could see the surrounding territory.
Thick brush gave way and was forced to surrender as Weber smashed through it. Eventually, after five minutes of concerted effort, the cyborg broke free of the foliage and entered an area blackened by fire. And there, with its nose half-buried in the ground, was a spaceship. It was too large to be an air car of the sort Governor Jones might have access to—but about right for a scout or small transport. But that was all she could discern without inspecting the wreckage more closely. “This is Four-Four . . . That thing could be empty or full of bad guys,” McKee said. “So be careful. And watch for trip wires, land mines, and IEDs.”
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