“Close the doors, please, Vladimir Janosovich,” came a muffled voice from among a mound of pillows. What a moment before had looked like a rumpled uniform tossed carelessly over a nearby cushion suddenly stirred. “The alcove is not well heated.”
Brygan now picked out the form of a thin man sunk deep into the cushion. His dark-colored uniform was little more than a loose-fitting jumpsuit. Now that his head was visible, it did not look larger than the head of any non-Mental.
General Leonov flushed angrily, but he did close the security doors. “The Union force was not in Aureum Chaos,” he growled as they shut behind him. “It was a trap.”
“Da.” The Mental offered little more for a few seconds. “I felt the explosions. Your men should be more careful. I warned you that they might have already moved.”
Brygan started at the criticism, which might have made him angry except that it was true that he had missed the trap until almost too late. Now it seemed that the Mental had warned Leonov, but the general had not told him that the Union force might already have moved on past Chaos.
“Well?” the general barked after a moment of silence among all parties.
The Mental shuddered. “I don’t know where they are.” His voice trembled with fatigue. “I haven’t looked.”
“Haven’t looked?” Leonov nearly shouted.
If the Mental was trying to see how far he might push Leonov, Brygan doubted it would be much further. The general’s anger rolled off him in waves—no extrasensory perception needed there—and his face showed the disgust so many Neo-Soviets felt for the physically weak Mentals. But staring down at the frail man, someone who surrounded himself with Terran pleasures but seemed unable to enjoy them, Brygan suddenly felt something else. Pity.
The Mental stared back, one eye blue and the other green, as if surprised by the scout’s presence. He was young, a sharp contrast to his voice, that of a frail old man. An uneven stubble darkened his jaw, and his hair was matted and unkempt, which made him look even more pitiful. Though Brygan did not feel physically threatened, he shifted uneasily under that stare until finally the Mental relaxed.
“Tovarish Nystolov,” the Mental said in soft greeting.
Brygan nodded a careful salute, uncomfortable with the use of the familiar form of comrade. It was a liberty usually reserved for close friends. A pointed glance from Leonov prompted him finally to join the discussion. “If I am to find the Union force quickly, comrade, I will need to have a general area. Any help is appreciated.”
The Mental frowned, winced, and looked in fear to Leonov. “Perhaps I should clarify. Something else eclipses the sight. I can’t look.”
Brygan noticed the general’s hands clenched into trembling fists. “Can’t or won’t?” Leonov asked in deadly calm. “I don’t believe you. You are playing a game against further privileges.”
“It is a simple request for communication with a Mental in Moscow or Hong Kong. That is a privilege, Vladimir Janosovich?”
The general shook his head. “Communications with Terra are still sporadic.” After a second’s pause, he added, “At best. Mars currently stands alone.” He was obviously losing the battle to subdue his anger. “Now what about the Union force?” he demanded.
“Then I shall need transport back to Terra,” the Mental said as if he hadn’t heard the question. “At once.”
“To the wastes with your requests and demands and doomful prophecies,” Leonov shouted, his temper finally winning out over the need to tread lightly around the overly sensitive Mental. His exoskeleton gloves slashed the air in front of the cowering man. “You and every Mental on Mars whimpering about wanting communications and transports. You are staying here, because I say so. Nothing you want could compare with what you owe the empire. And if I decide, you will take to the field with us.” He took a threatening step forward. “That is how it will be.”
The Mental simply retreated back into his cushions, while Brygan pondered the reasons for the general’s rage. This was a man the great and strong Vladimir Leonov could not completely control and would never be allowed to harm. At least physically; the verbal tirade seemed to take as much out of the Mental as any beating might. And while the general obviously wrote off the Mentals’ requests as pampered sniveling, it bothered Brygan to learn that the Mentals on Mars were suddenly interested in getting off the planet. Doomful prophecies? How big a force could the Union have landed?
“The Labyrinth,” the Mental finally squeaked out. “Search the Noctis Labyrinthus.”
“Good!” Leonov barked, still angry but calming down now that he had his answer. He turned for the doors. “Come, Scout Nystolov. You have your area.”
Yes, he did. And it was a reasonable guess that even Brygan could have made. If you wanted to lose a large force on Mars, the choices were most often either Chaos or the Labyrinth. He stood there, looking down on the trembling Mental, who had buried his face in his hands. For an instant he sensed the other’s pain, then the Mental lifted his face, his mismatched eyes seeking out Brygan’s. It was an obvious plea for help, but what could Brygan do against the general’s orders? He was responsible only to himself, for himself. It was the way he preferred to live. His reason for his being on Mars. Wasn’t it?
He turned away and joined Leonov outside the security doors. The general shut and encoded them again. Brygan struggled with the idea that perhaps—just perhaps—he was on Mars to escape the same treatment he’d witnessed in the Mental’s quarters. But even now Brygan knew he was just as expendable as the Mental, knew it with the same certainty he had about something else. Something he would not report to the general.
Brygan knew the Mental had lied.
* * *
With the map of north central Siberia stretched out over her desk, Colonel Katya Olia Romilsky circled around it, critically surveying the geographical chart from all sides. Gory Putorana figured prominently in the center of the map, colored in browns and oranges to show heights relative to sea level. She ran fingers back through her short, auburn hair, mimicking the silver stripe that curled up from her left temple and then slashed back down behind her left ear. Leaning forward suddenly, she pointed like a striking snake at the spot where her patrol had disappeared. Northeast quadrant, not too far south of the nuclear plant that supplied power up to Khatanga and other cities surrounding the Kordvik Inlet.
One of Noril’sk’s stronger Mentals had warned of a possible Union incursion in the southwest folds of Gory Putorana, but all patrols had come back negative. Only Katya’s natural suspicions had then placed patrols in other quadrants, and followed up the disappearance of one patrol with large troop movements. She stood prepared for battle, but the Mental’s error still nagged at her. Mentals were either right or—unlikely but possible—wrong.
“It is not normal,” she said aloud as her aide, Lieutenant Gregor Detchelov, entered the office carrying her lunch tray.
“Comrade Colonel?”
“Mentals,” she said, waving a hand over the map. “I’ve never seen one off the mark by so much. Five hundred kilometers.” She shook her head. A few failed nuclear plants and a number of hidden missile silos. Were the Union forces interested in those, or was this part of a larger search?
“Never trusted them anyway,” Gregor said, referring to the Mentals. “But then you did mention that they’ve been acting very strange of late.” He set down the tray on a side table. “Maybe the patrol simply fell victim to a slide or an unmapped area of lethal radiation. It happens.”
“Rad Troopers?” she asked. “No. Not the entire patrol.” She tapped the map with one long finger. “We have company.” And the Mental had given her a name. Sainz.
The towns and cities bordering Laptev More reported no odd sightings or unusual disturbances in the last week that might account for a clandestine landing. That left Karskoye More, and the recent destruction of the coastal town of Dikson. Now it had become the bay of Dikson, the entire town seemingly ripped from Terra. Just like the rumors ci
rculating through the upper command concerning Angola’s recent catastrophe, which seemed to confirm that the Union was in possession of a devastating new weapon and did not hesitate to use it against civilian populations. That they had tested it against United Africa further proved the corruption of the West, a baseness they tried so desperately to hide behind a veneer of altruism and supposed-superior moral standards. Yes, Dikson’s destruction pointed to Karskoye More as an insertion point.
Detchelov joined her at the desk. “What do you know of this Colonel Sainz?”
The question was more than just curiosity, Katya knew. It would be Gregor Antoly’s duty to request all official files, and, when those ran out, to ferret out any additional information possible. Digging for knowledge she already possessed would be a waste of time and resources, and with a memory that was virtually photographic, her knowledge was likely to be extensive.
“Union special forces,” she said, walking her mind back through reports so neatly pigeon-holed in her memory. “Part of a team that sabotaged our Leningrad Arms Facility and later led a Ranger unit that defeated security at Murmansk and stole our new armor alloy being tested there.” She turned the page of a mental dossier. “Promoted to command the One-twenty-first Reconnaissance Force, and later accepted transfer to the Seventy-first Assault Group.” She grimaced. “He has an unfortunate history of excelling against Mother Russia and the empire.”
“You seem to know a great deal of him, Colonel Romilsky,” Gregor said admiringly. “What more can I find for you?”
Her gaze turned wintry at the well-performed but false praise. She would make Detchelov pay for that. “You can find out more about the man who is Raymond Sainz. I know the general history, but nothing about how he accomplished his string of successes. What is his style of command? Where are his weaknesses? What was he like before joining the Union Army?”
“Before the Union Army?”
“We are taking the field in eight hours, Gregor Antoly, to link up with our own army. By then I want to know everything I can about what makes Raymond Sainz an effective officer. You can destroy an army, but you defeat its commander.” She turned ice-blue eyes on her subordinate. “Since you will also be on the front lines, I expect you to be properly motivated.”
Gregor nodded vigorously, though his face was pale. “It shall be as you command, Comrade Colonel Romilsky. I will hand you the key to Sainz’s defeat.”
“That is good, Gregor. Because I have no intention of adding to the list of Sainz’s victories. At Gory Putorana our forces will clash. And at Gory Putorana Raymond Sainz and the Seventy-first Assault Group will die.”
She looked down at the map and smiled to herself as she began to plan her approach and deployment. “Nothing on Terra must be allowed to stand in my way.”
7
* * *
A stream of bullets cut the air over Tom Tousley’s right shoulder, the sharp whistle-crack of their near passage demanding attention even over the distant heavy chatter of a Kalashnikov assault rifle and his Pitbull’s own higher-pitched reports. One slug clipped the shoulder plate displaying his rank and merit insignia, gouging into the Kevlar material and jostling his aim. His return fire scored into the rocky ground a hundred meters downrange, kicking up dirt and small splinters of rock a scant meter off the feet of two enemy infantrymen. The pair dropped down behind a slight rise in the land, and the other three members left in the pursuing Neo-Soviet squad followed suit. No poorly trained Rad Troopers these, but Neo-Soviet Vanguard well armed and outfitted and experienced in the conduct of warfare.
Tousley looked forward to taking them down.
In the dead zone between the opposing forces, a Union scout rolled from concealment and scrabbled toward the Union position. Tousley didn’t wait for her, waving his team of four back another dozen paces before setting up a new line of defense, each man and the one woman grabbing their own supporting cover. A strange plant that looked carved from translucent stone sprouted nearby. Tousley kicked at it, smashing the offense to his sensibilities into small pieces. He was really tired of such strange terrain, and though it was nothing like what the Seventy-first had encountered earlier, he didn’t need the distraction.
The scout made it another twenty meters before the Neo-Soviets rose up as a unit. Their opening fire drove her into the protection of a cluster of boulders. A few shots came close, but apparently none touched her. “Good,” she said over the Seventy-first’s common frequency. Not an appraisal of her current situation, which was precarious, but the standard call meaning she had finished her run and taken no injury worth mentioning.
“Far enough,” Tousley said over the same channel as the Vanguard infantry began walking their fire uprange to his position. He squeezed off a quick answering burst. “Cover and freeze, Kelly. We’ll take care of the rest.”
“All yours, Tom. I got mine earlier.”
Tousley grinned at her response, both brave and boasting at the same time. A fellow Texan and one of the Seventy-first’s best forward scouts, Kelly Fitzpatrick rated as one of his favorite “loners.” He’d be damned if he’d let her go the way of Corporal Hastings.
“So you sniped three from range. Hardly sporting. I think that’s why they’re so mad at you. Now stay down and pray they don’t go prospecting,” he said, referring to the grenade launchers built into the Kalashnikov, which could reduce her cover to gravel in a matter of seconds. They were a very real threat, but to use them against a lone scout in retreat was overkill and the Neo-Sovs were not in optimal range to blast away at his small team. The sergeant was gambling on the Vanguard infantry holding off a few seconds more.
He flinched and dropped down as a steady stream of enemy fire blasted into the facing of the rocks that hid him. Dust and shards flew wildly, choking the air with an earthy scent. He felt the sting of a hit on his upper arm, checked it, and found he’d been nicked just above the elbow. No immediate concern. He also noticed that the hit he’d taken earlier against his shoulder plate had scored a funny groove over his rank and merit insignia, adding the rocker bar which Sainz had taken away with Tousley’s demotion and removal as the Seventy-first’s command master sergeant. All over a stupid remark. For an ex-Ranger, the colonel had thin skin.
But now Tousley owed him for dismissing ’Becca’s promise of a review board. Life could have a twisted sense of humor, placing a red-blooded patriot under the command and in the debt of an officer like Raymond Sainz. And it wasn’t bigotry. It was about fairness. In Tousley’s eyes, the Union state of Mexico had done even less than Canada to deserve instant parity with the American contribution. It was no great secret that the average quality of life in the States dipped slightly after formation of the Union.
And no impressive prediction that he’d lose another soldier if he didn’t stop grousing and mind his job.
Craning his neck upward, he used peripheral vision to quickly check the landmarks back along the way they had come. The five enemy soldiers were almost abreast of a boulder on which he’d placed a small rock as marker. Thick growths of brush, some of it petrified, dotted the ground. Another few steps, he promised himself. Then a new bullet skipped off the stone near his face, stinging him with stone splinters. Close enough.
“Now! Able Team, cease fire. Baker Team, hit them!”
He shifted around to the other edge of the boulder he hid behind, catching the tail end of his carefully orchestrated ambush as three evergreen shrubs rose up and struck at the Neo-Soviet force with a withering cross fire. The enemy soldiers thrashed about as if shaken by invisible hands, their assault rifles falling to the ground and then gravity claiming the bodies as well. As quickly as that, the fight was ended. Ten minutes of terror put to rest by ten seconds of slaughter. Now the walking scrub moved about freely, toeing over corpses and shaking dirt from their fatigues. Tousley had worried about the camouflage job when ordering half his people into shallow holes as he tied scrub brush to arms and legs and kicked a bit of dirt and rock over them. From a distanc
e, though, the land itself seemed to have come alive to devour the Vanguard infantry. With the strange terrain they were seeing, it would only half surprise him.
And as his adrenaline rush faded into the usual hollow weariness, he wondered if that might be the next surprise in store for the Union army.
* * *
Five kilometers back of where Sergeant Tousley worked to extract Kelly Fitzpatrick, the bulk of the Seventy-first Assault Group carefully worked its way over the Moyyero River. The antigravity transports and heavy armor skimmed the surface with ease, though no driver was immune to an uneasy downward glance. A deployed squad of Ares heavy-assault suits stomped over, ice chips flying out from beneath their diamond-tread feet.
The men and women of the command picked their way across the Moyyero with greater care, each step treacherous. More than one cursed the cold touch as they slipped and had to pick themselves up off the river’s surface. Nerves were strung taut and faces betrayed the fear many of them felt. Only a few of the more spirited souls in the command accepted the bizarre event with a casual shrug, whether feigned or real, and threw caution aside as they ran across the ground and jumped onto the Moyyero, quickly sliding and slipping across.
“Frozen solid.” Raymond Sainz shook his head at Major Howard, the two of them walking the river’s southeast bank. The cold radiated outward from the river, chilling the air and turning their breath to frost. “An entire river of ice. It’s thirteen Celsius. How do you ice a river five meters deep when it’s thirteen degrees above freezing?”
This latest affront to reality was the kind that could awaken the shadows dwelling in any person’s mind. An anxiety that served as a reminder that the usual rules no longer applied. That nothing was safe. Sainz didn’t let it show, however, except as a measure of concern to his exec, though privately the colonel admitted that he stood an easy step from the edge of fright. Not panic—no Union officer in command of an assault group would give in quite so easily to unthinking terror—but fear, yes that was definitely within reach and not to be pushed aside in denial. Fear kept you sharp and on the edge. Worry, that kept you alive. Sometimes it seemed that half an officer’s job was to worry. About the equipment he was accountable for and the lives under his command.
Into the Maelstrom Page 6