Starfist - 14 - Double Jeopardy

by Dan Cragg

  “Get this to the Commodore.” He gave out the order as soon as he had added his estimate to the data.

  “Aye aye, sir,” Gullkarl said. He sent the data to the radio shack with instructions to send it planetside posthaste.

  Trundle’s voice came back. “Sorry, Captain, can’t tell you. It’s a sealed consignment. I don’t know what the cargo is. You’ll have to ask the consignee.”

  “That’s a blatant lie,” Maugli muttered, “and I’m sure Cukayla would lie as well if the Commodore asked him.”

  “In that case,” he said into the ship-to-ship, “I can’t allow you to unload your cargo. The Confederation Marines are conducting exercises planetside. Civilian vessels are not allowed to interfere with such exercises. I can provide you with the relevant statutes if you need to check the law.”

  Again there was a too-long pause before Trundle came back. “Well then, I guess I’ll just park in orbit until the exercises are over.”

  “If you do, I may have to put a security force on board to ensure that you don’t release your cargo prematurely.”

  Trundle’s answer to that began with a cut-off bark of laughter. “Always glad to cooperate with the Confederation Navy, Captain. Dayzee Mae out.”

  “Is he, now?” Maugli wondered.

  “Captain,” Gullkarl said, “I think you’ll like to see this as well.” He transferred another file to Maugli’s console. It was Trundle’s entry in Jane’s Starship Owners, Captains, Officers, and Other Notable Crew.

  Maugli read through it, gave out a low whistle, and said, “Thank you, Commander. Kindly see to it that the Commodore gets this.”

  The entry was only a few lines long, but it spoke volumes about Herb Trundle. He’d never been convicted, or even tried, for misdoings of his own, but his career, from the days of his initial commission into the merchant marine, was filled with voyages undertaken on behalf of known or suspected gun runners, smugglers, and other criminal elements.

  “It’s a pity we don’t know the identities of any of his officers and crew,” Gullkarl said.

  “It is indeed. If the Commodore authorizes a boarding party to prevent him from landing his ‘cargo,’ we should find out then.”

  “Paska did say they had more people coming,” Brigadier Sturgeon said after he read the material Captain Maugli had transmitted to Commodore Borland. The two were in the Marine’s office, where the Commodore had come as soon as he’d read the material on the Dayzee Mae and Herb Trundle.

  “Maybe more than twice as many additional men as you have,” Borland said, “on top of the couple of thousand he said he already has. That’s, what, nearly five times your strength—if they decide to resist?”

  Sturgeon shrugged it off and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on a desk drawer. “My Marines have faced worse odds and come out on top. I’m not overly concerned about being outnumbered by mercenaries.”

  “What if they join forces with the Fuzzy rebels?”

  Sturgeon chuckled. “I hardly think that’s likely. The more likely scenario is, the Sharp Edge mercs will stand aside while my Marines deal with whatever Fuzzy rebels want to continue fighting after we shut down the mining operations and free their compatriots.”

  They were briefly interrupted by Lieutenant Quaticatl delivering a tray with a pot of caff and two mugs.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Sturgeon said. He waited for his aide to leave before saying, “Sorry about the caff, but the Marines don’t provide real coffee to units in the field.”

  “It’ll do,” Borland said. But the expression on his face when he took a sip said otherwise.

  “I suspect that the Fuzzies will stop their rebellion when they see that we’re freeing them from the mines.”

  Borland considered that briefly before nodding, and said, “I imagine you’re right about that.” He shifted his posture on the visitor’s chair and pushed the mug of caff to the side. “Have you heard anything yet from the first of your platoons to shut down a mine?”

  “No, but I expect to within”—Sturgeon checked the time—“the next quarter hour, standard.”

  Ensign Chimsamy, commander of Mike Company’s first platoon, marched erect toward the main gate of Mining Camp No. 8, two hundred kilometers southwest of the Marine base. A fire team from the platoon’s first squad accompanied him. The four had their helmets’ shields raised to show friendly intent; sweat flowed copiously on their faces. The rest of the platoon remained two hundred meters back, under the command of Staff Sergeant Crain. They stood in full view of the guardhouse, with their weapons held ready. The two guards in the gatehouse stepped outside as the Marines reached them.

  “Didn’t expect any relief yet,” said the first guard, a burly man in a tiger-stripe camouflage uniform with some kind of sergeant’s stripes on the sleeves. His helmet had a clear faceplate. The name tag on his shirt said Neave. He looked at the Marines with greater curiosity; their uniforms weren’t like his and they carried plasma weapons rather than the flechette shooters that were Sharp Edge’s standard issue. “Where are you from, anyway? And who sent you?”

  “I guess you haven’t gotten the word yet,” Chimsamy said. “We’re Confederation Marines. We’re here to shut this mine down.”

  “Now see here!” Neave took a step back and put his hand on the flechette pistol he wore holstered on his hip. “I haven’t gotten any word about this. And I ain’t letting nobody come in here and shut this mine down without instructions from my boss.”

  Chimsamy made a show of turning his head to look back at his platoon, then back at Neave. “How many men do you have here, Sergeant Neave?”

  “What?” Neave said, startled by the question. “Two, three dozen. Why do you want to know?”

  “Two, three dozen,” Chimsamy repeated. “I have a whole platoon of Confederation Marines with me. Would you care to discuss the question with a platoon of Confederation Marines?”

  “Ahh …” Neave looked uncertainly past Chimsamy and thought about the thirty Sharp Edge guards and overseers, who weren’t ready, against a platoon of Confederation Marines, who looked primed for a fight. “Are you sure about this, ah, Captain?” He didn’t recognize the Marine’s collar insignia but thought that nobody would send a mere lieutenant to shut down a Sharp Edge operation.

  “It’s Ensign. And no, I’m not sure—I’m positive. Are you in charge here?”

  “N-no, I’m second in command. Captain Bauer is.”

  “All right then, take me to your Captain Bauer.”

  Neave nodded curtly. “Come on, Bauer can deal with you. That’s why he gets paid the big bucks.”

  Captain Bauer swore about it—threw a tantrum, actually—but in half an hour, the overseers had brought the Fuzzies out of the mine, and Bauer and all of his men were on Dragons in an Essay, ready to be ferried to Base Camp.

  The Fuzzies didn’t know what to make of these new Naked Ones who sent them out of the camp and then went away in a metal house that lifted an arm’s length above the ground and went away with an earthshaking roar. As soon as the noise died out in the distance, the Fuzzies scurried to a nearby field, where they grubbed for the first good meal they’d had in longer than any of them wanted to think about.

  Sated at length, they began discussing how were they ever going to find their way back to their home burrow, since they had no idea where they were.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After the experience of Mike Company’s first platoon at Mining Camp No. 8, the second platoon of Kilo Company had every expectation of a walkover at Mining Camp No. 3. Ensign Irvin looked at the wire fence enclosing the camp and thought how flimsy it looked at this distance. He left the platoon under Staff Sergeant Jhomin in the waist-high grass two hundred meters from the entrance and began marching toward the gatehouse, accompanied by a fire team.

  They had covered half the distance when someone on a loud hailer ordered, “That’s far enough. Stop right there.”

  Irvin broke step at the hailing, but didn’t s
top. Instead he smiled a crooked grin and adjusted his helmet’s speaker to boom his voice out. “No, I’m not stopping,” he said loudly enough to be heard in the gatehouse and beyond. “We’re coming in. Surely someone told you to expect us.”

  “Yeah,” the loud-hailing voice answered, “someone did.” And with that, fire from multiple weapons erupted from the gatehouse. Irvin’s chest and belly were shredded by the fire. The three Marines in the accompanying fire team all dove for the ground, untouched—the Sharp Edge guards had all aimed at Irvin.

  “Hit the dirt!” Jhomin shouted as soon as the first shots rang out. “Take those bastards out!”

  Twenty blasters and two guns went into action, their individual CRACK-sizzles lost in the combined roar of the weapons. The gatehouse was made of sun-baked brick, sufficient against flechettes but totally unable to withstand the onslaught of so many plasma bolts. The bricks shattered, splintered, and sent overheated shards flying, ripping into the bodies of the already dead and wounded Sharp Edge guards. The building collapsed in a flurry of sparking cinders.

  “Cease fire, cease fire!” Jhomin roared into his helmet comm. He silently swore about being in garrison utilities instead of chameleons. But this wasn’t supposed to have happened. What’s wrong with these people? he wondered. Do they really think three dozen mercs can stand up to a Marine platoon? “How’s the ensign?” he asked on the platoon circuit.

  “He’s dead!” Corporal Wirewych, whose fire team had accompanied Irvin, replied. He sounded more furious than upset. “The rest of us are all right,” he added. “Do you want us to come back?”

  “No. Change your position so they can’t pick out exactly where you are, but stay near where you were for now.”

  “Roger. Moving.”

  Jhomin raised himself high enough to see through the top of the grass; he couldn’t see grass moving where he knew Wirewych and his men had to be. If he couldn’t, probably the bad guys couldn’t, either.

  Movement inside the wire enclosure drew a few shots from the Marines. Jhomin looked, saw what his men were shooting at, and cried out, “Cease fire! Hold your fire!” Fuzzies, hundreds of them, were moving toward the wire. He’d never seen them in the flesh before, but seeing them through his magnifier screen, they looked reluctant and frightened, wanting to get away. He peered deeper into their mass and swore at what he saw. Armed Sharp Edge guards—many more than the three dozen of them the Marines thought were there—were forcing the Fuzzies forward by swinging cudgels and whips at them.

  “Hold your fire!” Jhomin shouted again. “Those sons a bitches are using the Fuzzies as human shields!” he shouted, unconsciously granting the “smart animals” full status as people.

  The first Fuzzies reached the wire and were pressed against it by the weight of those behind, forced ahead by the whips and clubs of the guards and overseers. Then the Sharp Edge mercenaries poked their rifles through the mass of Fuzzies and began firing at the Marines. The Fuzzies chittered and screamed in terror and pain.

  All the Marines could do was hug the ground and try to find shallow ripples in the soil that would give them some protection from the flechettes buzzing past like manic bees—they weren’t even wearing body armor.

  Jhomin raised his head just high enough to see though the grass. Even with his magnifier, he could barely make out any of the guards through the mass of Fuzzies shielding them. But he thought they were all behind the native aliens, not mixed in among them.

  “Kerstman, take two fire teams around the left and flank them. I think you’ll have clear shots.”

  “Aye aye,” Sergeant Kerstman called back. He then addressed his men: “Hungh, Llewellen, you and your people with me!” He slithered backward from the line and low-crawled to his left. Six other Marines began low-crawling with him.

  Jhomin hoped the mercenaries wouldn’t see the moving grass that marked the Marines crawling to a flanking position.

  “Is anybody hit?” he asked into his helmet comm, belatedly remembering to check for casualties. He listened to the fire team leaders’ reports. So far, the only casualty was Ensign Irvin. But that couldn’t last, and it didn’t.

  “Wirewych, can you pull back?” Jhomin asked.

  “Maybe, but only if we leave the Ensign, and I don’t want to leave him behind.”

  “Then sit tight.” Good Marine, Wirewych, he thought. We Marines don’t leave our dead behind.

  Flechette fire came fast and hard. Needles zipped past, pocked into the dirt around the Marines, clipped the grass over their heads. Some found marks, and wounded Marines screamed in pain. Other Marines busied themselves patching up the wounded.

  After some minutes, the fire from the mining camp slackened and then ended. Someone inside used the loud hailer to call to the Marines.

  “Anybody left in charge out there?” the someone asked.

  Jhomin adjusted the speaker on his helmet to project his voice and called back, “I am.”

  “Okay, ‘I am,’ you ready to surrender yet?”

  “You got things mixed up. It’s you who needs to surrender before you get seriously hurt.”

  The man with the loud hailer laughed. “Gotta hand it to you Marines. You got more balls than sense. Can’t tell when you’re beat.”

  “Maybe that’s why we win so often. People who think they’ve got us beat stop fighting, and then we kick their asses.”

  “Yeah? I haven’t noticed you shooting back.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re Marines, we’re the good guys. Good guys aren’t real keen on shooting innocent civilians to get at the bad guys.”

  “What innocent civilians? All we’ve got here is a herd of dumb animals. But if you want to think of them as civilians, that’s fine with me. We’ll just resume fire and keep it up until you’re wiped out. How’s that sound?”

  “We’re in position.” Kerstman’s voice came over the radio.

  Jhomin turned off his exterior speaker. “Do you have clear shots?”

  “Sure do. Ducks in a barrel.”

  “That’s fish.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. How many of them do you see?”

  “I see about thirty of them. They’ve got some kind of barrier, something on legs, pressed against the Fuzzies, so only a few of the mercs can keep them against the fence. There are more mercs inside the camp. Maybe twenty, maybe more, I’m not sure.”

  Jhomin swore. All he had on the flank was seven Marines, facing maybe fifty mercs, maybe more. Awful long odds, even for Marines.

  “What’s the matter, Marines?” came a taunt over the loud hailer. “You waiting for relief, reinforcements? I don’t think any are coming. So it’s up to you, you can surrender or you can die.”

  “Strange you should say that,” Jhomin said after readjusting his speaker to project his voice. “Because that’s exactly the choice you’re facing. Nah, you had your chance to surrender. Kerstman, kill the fucker.”

  A second later, a lone CRACK-sizzle sounded to the left, followed closely by a thud and a piercing squeal as the loud hailer fell to the ground.

  “Got him,” Kerstman said.

  “Take them all out,” Jhomin ordered, then said to the rest of the platoon, “Start moving forward.”

  On hands and knees, not caring that the moving grass would give their positions away, fifteen Marines began moving toward the fence and the terrified Fuzzies pinned against it. Four Marines, too badly wounded to go with them, remained behind. The firefight raged furious beyond the natives.

  Sixty meters from the wire, Jhomin shouted, “Up and at ’em!”

  The fifteen Marines jumped up and charged. At twenty meters they started roaring out war cries. The terrified Fuzzies grew manic when they saw the Marines jump up out of the grass. When the Marines began yelling, they trebled their efforts to break free from the barriers holding them, and some managed to do it. Most at least got away from the fence.

  The fence wasn’t as flimsy as it had looked to Ensign Irvin when he first exa
mined it from two hundred meters, but it wasn’t so strong that the hundreds of Fuzzies pressed against it didn’t warp it; Jhomin thought that if they’d been kept there much longer, they would have brought sections down. A few sections did fall as the Marines clambered over the fence. Many Fuzzies took advantage of that to flee as soon as the Marines got out of the way. They bounded away, tails high in the air, rocking up and down like hobbyhorses.

  Nearly half of the Sharp Edge mercenaries who’d had the Fuzzies pinned against the fence were down and out of the fight. The rest of them were down and firing in the direction of Sergeant Kerstman and his two fire teams. Some noticed the commotion to their left and turned to face the new threat bearing down on them. But the Marines with Jhomin were already firing, picking their targets. Most of their bolts hit home. In less than a minute, the survivors threw away their weapons and held their arms up, open palms waving at the Marines.

  Deeper in the camp, other mercenaries kept firing at the flanking Marines for a few moments until they received a few bursts from the platoon’s guns. They realized that the fence was lost and that the rest of their men were dead or captured. Then they too surrendered.

  Staff Sergeant Jhomin sent first squad to bring in the platoon’s casualties. Then he put some of his Marines to collecting weapons and had the prisoners collect the dead and wounded—human and Fuzzy both. He had all the dead, Sharp Edge and Fuzzy together, laid side by side to drive home a point, even though he wasn’t quite sure what the point was that he wanted to make.