When Duty Calls

by William C. Dietz

  “Welcome to Firebase 356,” the marine officer said gruffly. “My name’s Suki, Lieutenant Colonel Suki, and we were told to expect you. Tell me something, Captain. . . . Why would a Legion officer show up wearing navy cold-weather gear?”

  “Because we had the foresight to steal all the cold-weather gear we could lay our hands on, sir,” Santana answered truthfully. “And it belonged to the navy.”

  When Suki laughed, the sound came out as a loud guffaw. “You report to General Kobbi. . . . Is that right?”

  Santana nodded. “Through Colonel Quinlan . . . Yes, sir.”

  “Kobbi’s a good man,” Suki said. “So good he could have been a marine! So you’re the officer they selected to go after Colonel Six.”

  “Sir, yes sir,” Santana said evenly.

  “Well, do me a favor,” Suki growled. “Once you find the bastard, shoot him! Because if you bring him back, there will be a court-martial, and who knows what would come out of that. Especially once the politicians get wind of it.”

  “You’re not the first person to make that suggestion,” Santana answered noncommittally.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Suki replied. “Come on. . . . Let’s get in out of the cold.”

  Five minutes later, the legionnaires were in the firebase’s heavily sandbagged command bunker, which though warmer than the air outside, was still too cold for comfort, despite the combined efforts of chemical stoves that sat crouched in opposite corners. One plastic-draped wall was taken up with com equipment, while a second was obscured by a bank of video screens, on which helmet-cam video from foot patrol “Joker-Four” was currently displayed. There was also a rack of assault weapons, a two-burner field stove with two pots sitting on top of it, and a long, narrow worktable, which consisted of two cargo mods, topped by a sheet of locally manufactured plywood. Positioned on that were four milspec computers—two of which were currently being used by marine noncoms. “Okay,” Suki said, as the two bio bods took their places on upended ammo crates. “I’m going to assume you did your homework—and read the reports we sent in. So, since you know what we know, why the visit?”

  It was a somewhat contentious question. But because the legionnaire knew how frustrating it was to play patty-cake with fact finders, touring politicians, and other forms of lowlife REMF scum, he wasn’t offended. “Don’t worry, sir. . . . The lieutenant and I didn’t come all this way to participate in a cold-weather circle jerk. We need information that wasn’t available at the regimental level.”

  That was news to Millar, who knew that junior officers were meant to be seen and not heard. That was why the cyborg continued to hover off to one side, half-hidden in the shadows. “Okay,” Suki responded. “What are you after? We’ll do whatever we can to help.”

  “Colonel Six came here to steal supplies,” Santana began. “That much seems clear. Based on the reports that Captain Arvo Smith filed, the decision to take hostages was clearly made on the fly. Plus, the Seebos had about fifty civilians on call, which further substantiates that premise. But,” Santana continued, “according to what I read, Colonel Six and his men were rather choosy about what they took. A list of the stolen items was included in the report submitted by Captain Smith. What wasn’t available at the regimental level, was a list of what Colonel Six could have taken, but didn’t. If we compare the two lists, we should be able to get a pretty good idea of what the clone bastard plans to do next.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Suki said admiringly. “You’re smarter than you look! Sergeant Diker! You’ve been listening in—and don’t pretend you weren’t. Pull up a list of the supplies that were on hand the day the clones arrived—and put that side by side with what they actually took.”

  A corporal brought the officers mugs of hot caf while Diker summoned the data Santana had requested, formatted the results, and sent the product to a printer. Millar plucked his copy right out of midair by tapping into the low-power wireless network.

  With hard copy in hand, Santana began a systematic review of both lists. Most of the stolen items were what any guerrilla fighter would want, including food, ammo, and com gear. One piece of which included the locator beacon that had been used to track him down a couple of days earlier. Of course, other things had been stolen as well—including a significant quantity of medical supplies.

  But of more interest were ten Shoulder-Launched Multipurpose Assault Weapons (SMAW), and sixty 83mm High-Explosive Dual-Purpose (HEDP) Rockets, which was twice, if not three times, the number of SMAWs a company of Seebos would normally carry. The question was why? Because the weapons were available? Or to equip the guerrilla fighters for a specific mission?

  Now that he had it in front of him, Santana could see that the other list, the one that laid out what Six could have absconded with, included six 60mm mortars, which would be perfect for guerrilla fighting, a generous quantity of high explosives that would be just right for blowing bridges, and four surface-to-air missile launchers with heat-seeking rockets. Weapons that would have given the Seebos the theoretical capacity to knock fighters out of the sky. But rather than select any of those items, Six chose ten SMAWs.

  It soon became apparent that having reviewed both lists, and having given the matter some thought, Suki was thinking along similar lines. “I never thought about it before,” the senior officer admitted reluctantly, “but why steal so many shoulder tubes? Unless the bastard plans to go tank hunting.”

  “I think that’s exactly what he has in mind,” Santana responded grimly. “Though not in the way you mean. Sergeant Diker . . . Please pull up all of the holding areas or similar facilities where Colonel Six could potentially lay his hands on allied armor. That includes tanks, APCs (armored personnel carriers), and anything else you can think of.”

  “How far, sir?” the noncom wanted to know, his fingers already tapping away.

  “One hundred miles around this firebase,” the legionnaire answered. “Prioritize those facilities located to the east of us—and those that have the smallest footprint. After all,” Santana observed thoughtfully. “Why attack a big base, if you can get what you need from a small one?”

  There was barely enough time to take another sip of coffee before the answer came back. The light from the computer screen gave Diker’s face a bluish tint. “Using those parameters the most likely location would be Refueling Station 32, which belongs to the 3rd Force Support Group. It’s located about sixty-four miles east of here—at the point where the road starts up toward Tow-Tok Pass. There aren’t any armored units based at RS-32, but plenty of tanks and APCs stop for fuel there, before heading up over the hump. Both the second and third hits are relatively large battalion-strength repair and maintenance outfits.”

  There was a loud thump as Santana’s fist hit the surface of the table. “Yes! That’s exactly the kind of place Six would choose! Especially now that everyone is on the lookout for him. Assuming RS-32 is the same one that I’m thinking of, we passed it a few days ago, and a squad of half-drunk store clerks could take it!

  “All Six would have to do is sneak up on RS-32 with his SMAWs at the ready, wait until the depot was empty, and put the first rocket into the com mast. The second, third, and fourth rounds would be used to neutralize weapons emplacements if necessary. Otherwise, he would simply walk in! What would a refueling depot have?” the legionnaire wondered. “Six bio bods and an equal number of robots? They wouldn’t stand a chance. The next vehicles to arrive might, or might not, be to his liking. If not, he would let them go. But if they met his requirement, Colonel Six would commandeer them, top off their tanks, and drive them up over the pass. Because that would not only get his Seebos into combat sooner—but give his troops an edge once they arrive!”

  Suki was clearly impressed. “Not bad, Captain, not bad at all. . . . Of course there are some big ifs in your plan, but assuming the bastard wants to kill bugs, then that’s where he would go.”

  “Let’s get Station 32 on the horn,” Santana suggested. “So we can wa
rn them.”

  Five long minutes passed while a com tech repeatedly sought to make contact with the tiny base. But there was no response. “I think you’d better get ahold of Regimental Command,” Santana said as he came to his feet. “Tell them to send a rapid-response force to RS-32. . . . And tell them to be very careful once they arrive.”

  Then, having tossed a salute toward Colonel Suki, Santana made for the surface. Millar was right behind him. And, because the cyborg had already been in radio communication with the fly-form, the other legionnaire’s engines were beginning to spool up as Santana entered the passenger compartment. The boxy transport was airborne four minutes later and headed southeast. Millar was strapped in by that time. “You nailed that one, sir,” the recon ball said. “But I have a question. . . .”

  Santana’s thoughts were miles away, and he had forgotten all about Millar. “Yes? What’s that?”

  “Well, sir,” Millar said hesitantly. “What if we arrive before the rapid-response team? And Colonel Six is still there?”

  It was something Santana should have considered but hadn’t. He smiled. “Then we’ll land and order the sonofabitch to surrender!”

  Millar laughed, but when Santana didn’t, the junior officer wondered if the cavalry officer was serious! And that was scary, because the special ops officer had been killed in action once, and had no desire to repeat the experience.

  But Millar needn’t have worried, because by the time the fly-form arrived over Refueling Station 32, an armed shuttle and rapid-response team were on the ground. And, judging from all of the troops that were milling around, and the smoke still pouring out of what remained of the depot’s com hut, some sort of action had already taken place. “Put us down,” Santana ordered grimly, and the fly-form hurried to obey. The station wasn’t much to look at. Just a mound inside a defensive berm, two opposing gates so that vehicles could pull through without backing, and what was left of the smoking hab. Half of the com mast was missing, which was why the com tech at MF-356 had been unable to get through.

  A lieutenant from the 13th DBLE’s recon squadron was there to greet the cavalry officer as his boots hit the frozen ground. She had brown skin, wide-set eyes, and a scar that ran diagonally down across her face. “Lieutenant Bamik, sir,” the woman said, as she tossed Santana a salute. “I have orders to provide you with whatever assistance I can. But we arrived too late to stop him.”

  Santana swore. “How many people did the bastard kill?”

  “One, sir, when the HEDP round hit the com shack. A company of Seebos stormed the place immediately after that.”

  “What about the hostages?” Santana wanted to know.

  “Colonel Six has them,” Bamik answered glumly. “A navy doctor and a navy medic. Both appeared to be in good condition. The doctor dropped this on the ground.”

  Santana accepted the small piece of paper. Judging from how wrinkled it was, the note had been wadded up into a ball. “To whom it may concern,” the message began. “I have reason to believe that Colonel Six plans to take us over Tow-Tok Pass.” It was signed, “Lt. Kira Kelly, Medical Officer, CSB Navy.” That was promising. Not only did it serve to confirm the cavalry officer’s hypothesis, it meant the doctor had her wits about her.

  Santana looked out toward the highway as two heavily loaded trucks growled past. Both were loaded with glum-looking CVA conscripts. The officer was struck by how empty the two-lane road was compared to the bumper-to-bumper traffic that he and his company had been forced to deal with as they entered the mountains. That seemed to imply a breakthrough of some sort, a victory that had allowed allied forces to cross Tow-Tok Pass and head for the town of Yal-Am beyond. So maybe General-453 had been right all along. Maybe the bugs were on the run.

  Not that it made much difference to Santana. What mattered to him was that the highway was open. Which meant that the renegade and his Seebos would be able to make good time. “So what kind of vehicles did they steal?” Santana wanted to know as he turned back toward Bamik.

  The junior officer consulted a scrap of paper. “Two Hegemony hover tanks, five half-tracks, a six-by-six, and a fueler. All taken from a company of Seebos. All the colonel had to do was order them to exit the vehicles, and they obeyed,” the legionnaire said disgustedly. “That’s the clones for you!”

  “So he’s got plenty of go-juice,” Santana commented. “Okay, let’s see if we can cut the bastard off. I need a com link.”

  “I can take care of that,” Millar said, thereby reminding Santana of his presence. “Right,” Santana replied. “Thank you. See if you can raise First Lieutenant Lucy Amoyo for me. . . . Call sign, Alpha One-Six. My company is on hold at Waypoint 27. Maybe, just maybe, they can block the road and cut Six off. Assuming you can raise Amoyo, tell her what to look for, and tell her I’m on my way.”

  Millar bobbed up and down by way of an acknowledgment, attempted to make contact, and failed. That wasn’t unusual in and around the mountains, so the recon ball shot straight up, and leveled off at one hundred fifty feet. And from that altitude the cyborg had better luck. He was able to make contact with Alpha Company within a matter of minutes, introduce himself to Lieutenant Amoyo, and relay Santana’s message.

  Having accomplished his mission, the scout dropped to a point only four feet off the surface, where it was necessary to hurry over to the fly-form, which was preparing for takeoff. The transport flew only one hundred feet off the highway as it followed the ribbon of concrete up into the mountains. The cyborg kept a sharp “eye” out for the fugitive vehicles but saw no sign of them. Even though it had taken Alpha Company days to make their way up to Waypoint 27—it took the cybernetically controlled aircraft less than fifteen minutes to make the same trip.

  Back before the invasion, Waypoint 27 had been little more than a wide spot in the highway. A place where civilian truckers could pull out to let faster vehicles pass, take a bio break, or make some minor repairs. But during the long, hard-fought push up toward Tow-Tok Pass, the flat area had been used as the site for everything from a field hospital to a forward repair-and-maintenance company. Of course, those units were gone, leaving the piece of godforsaken real estate to some forlorn wrecks, and the legionnaires of Alpha Company.

  The fly-form’s repellers generated a cloud of steam and blew a layer of powdery snow sideways as the cyborg came in for a perfect landing on the big red X that Master Sergeant Dietrich had spray-painted onto the ice-encrusted ground. By the time the engines began to spool down, and the fly-form’s steps had been deployed, Santana’s T-2 was there to meet him. Ten minutes later, the two of them were out on the surface of the much-abused road, where the company’s quads were half-blocking the highway. Which should be enough force to stop Six given that he wouldn’t be able to deploy more than two hover tanks side by side or run any flanking maneuvers. Millar followed ten feet behind them.

  The moment Santana saw Amoyo’s force he knew something was wrong. The platoon leader’s face shield was up, her cheeks were ruddy from the cold, and the set of her mouth was grim. Both legionnaires were mounted and therefore eye to eye. “Welcome back, sir. . . . I wish I had better news to report.”

  Santana felt his spirits fall but was careful to keep his expression neutral. “They got by?”

  “Sir, yes sir,” Amoyo said miserably. “It was my fault, sir. . . . I gave orders to watch for two tanks, five tracks, a truck, and a tanker.”

  There was a brief pause while Santana considered the way the report had been phrased. Then he understood. “But you didn’t give orders to be on the lookout for a tank, two half-tracks, and a six-by, or some other combination of vehicles.”

  “Eventually, I did,” Amoyo added apologetically. “But it was too late by then. They had already passed in three seemingly discrete groups. And the unit designators on the vehicles had been changed.”

  “That’s too bad,” Santana allowed sympathetically. “But don’t let it get you down. . . . Colonel Six is one smart bastard! That’s why they chose u
s to catch him! Come on, let’s pull the company together, and give chase. Maybe one of his vehicles will break down or something. We’ll catch up with him eventually.”

  And they tried. But there was no sign of the renegade or the stolen vehicles as the company topped Tow-Tok Pass four hours later and started down the other side. It became increasingly difficult to see because a winter storm had blown in from the west and was about to dump a foot of fresh snow onto eastern slopes of the Hebron mountain range. So it wasn’t long before visibility was reduced to fifty or sixty feet. That was when Santana sent Lieutenant Millar forward to scout the road ahead and provide advance warning if something was blocking the highway.

  But it wasn’t long before the recon ball came across something a lot more serious than a stalled APC blocking the road. The ground was fairly level at that point, forming a broad shelf in the mountainside, where the ice-encrusted concrete disappeared into a nightmarish landscape of wrecked vehicles. There were hundreds of them, both Ramanthian and allied, all mixed up with each other in a way that suggested a close-quarters battle between two armored units.

  It would be easy to lose one’s way inside the steel maze, especially given the gathering gloom, and Millar was about to call that in when a flare lit the sky ahead. A lacy curtain of gently falling snow caused the light to flicker, as it threw ghostly shadows toward the west, and the steady pop, pop, pop of rifle fire was heard intermixed with the cloth-ripping sound of automatic weapons. “Alpha Six, this is Alpha Six-Six,” the cyborg said, as he hovered next to an overturned truck. “There’s a huge junkyard directly in your path—and the snow is making it very difficult to follow the road. Based on that, plus the firefight under way up ahead, I recommend that the company stop short of the battlefield and wait for morning. Over.”