The comment was worthy of a chuckle and got one from the other veterans, but something blocked Hammerhand’s throat as one of the undertaker’s sons closed the coffi?n’s metal lid and began to fasten the latches. The ex-legionnaire wanted to scream but wasn’t about to reveal the weakness he had worked so hard to conceal for more than forty years, and thereby run the risk that they would leave him behind. A fate even worse than dying inside a pitch-black coffi?n. So the Naa bit his upper lip and focused on the pain.
Hammerhand could hear the sound of muffl?ed conversation as the supposedly empty coffi?ns were loaded onto a wagon—followed by a period of extended silence as a hardworking dooth pulled the heavily loaded conveyance up toward the fort. That delay was bad enough. But, unfortunately for Hammerhand and his companions, other vendors were already lined up in front of the open gate. The result was a long, and for Hammerhand torturous, wait.
Eventually, after what seemed like a week, the wagon drew level with the guard station. Although many of what Vice President Jakov and his staff considered to be critical security functions were presently being handled by marines, the fort was still being run by the Legion. A necessity given the fact that they outnumbered the jarheads a hundred to one. So the Sergeant of the Guard knew the undertaker’s number two son, and having seen him at least a couple of times a week for many months, nodded politely. “Good morning, Citizen Bodytake. What have you got for us?”
“Four coffi?ns,” the Naa replied, as his breath fogged the air. “And a horrendous hangover.”
The sergeant knew a thing or two about hangovers and smiled sympathetically. “I know what you mean. . . . If you would be so kind as to eyeball the scanner, and place your thumb on the sensor pad, we’ll process you in.”
Bodytake removed a glove, thumbed the pole-mounted pad, and knew that his retinas were being scanned as he did so. It took less than a second for the fort’s computer to compare the incoming biometric data to the undertaker’s fi?le and approve it. “All right,” the sergeant said, as he waved the wagon through. “As for the hangover . . . Drop a pain tab into a cup of hot caf, add a half teaspoon of gunpowder, and chase it with a beer. It works for me!”
Bodytake thanked the legionnaire for the advice and held his breath as the wagon rattled through an ice-encrusted framework. The purpose of the device was to detect common explosives, radioactive materials, and large quantities of metal. And that raised an important question. Would the small arms stored in the coffi?ns trigger the detector? But no alarms went off as the wagon rolled through, so the undertaker felt free to take a deep breath as he neared the gate. Meanwhile, less than two feet away, Hammerhand was at war with himself. He uttered a whimper as the wagon began to move—and took comfort from the gun in his hand. Though never a pleasant place to be, the pit had gradually been transformed from a reasonably well-run military detention facility into a badly crowded prison where murderers, thieves, and deserters rubbed shoulders with noncoms, offi?cers, and government offi?cials who had been arrested on trumped-up charges and jailed so that Vice President Jakov and his toadies could consolidate their power without fear of opposition. That meant the political prisoners were vulnerable to all sorts of predation, or would have been, except for the presence of Legion General Bill Booly. Because, contrary to what seemed like common sense, the vast majority of the criminals interred in the pit were still willing to take orders. So long as the orders came from someone they respected.
Realizing that, Booly and the other offi?cers who had been arrested for purely political reasons quickly went to work reorganizing the prisoners into squads, platoons, and companies, and thereby restored them to a system of discipline they were familiar with. And most of the legionnaires not only welcomed the newly imposed sense of order but the feeling of purpose that accompanied it, because even the least sophisticated prisoners could see that the vice president was abusing his power. There were exceptions, of course. Psychopaths and the like, who were soon confi?ned to a prison-within-a-prison, where the other convicts kept them under lock and key. The new warden didn’t approve of the arrangement—but was powerless to stop without triggering a full-scale riot. So as the days passed, the prisoners were systematically reintegrated into the Legion as the marines looked on. Which was a step in the right direction but brought Booly very little peace because he knew that with each passing day, Jakov’s grip on the bureaucracy, and therefore the government, grew tighter and tighter. And with the vote to confi?rm him being held in a couple of weeks—rumor had it that many senators were ready to accept what they saw as inevitable.
But there was nothing that he or the other offi?cials could do but formulate some contingency plans and try to stay in shape as time continued to pass. So, in an effort to keep the legionnaires both fi?t and occupied a round of kickboxing tournaments had been organized. And that’s where Booly was, judging a fi?ght between two spider forms, when a long, hollow scream was heard.
It came from above and echoed between the tiers, as a marine fell toward the bottom of the pit. He was a machine gunner. Or had been back before Quickblow Hammerhand threw the unfortunate jarhead over the rail. His body made a sickening thud as it hit the duracrete fl?oor. That was when the Naa commando took control of the unmanned weapon, lifted the gun up off the pintle-style mount, and opened fi?re on the warden’s offi?ce located on the opposite side of the canyonlike abyss. Glass shattered, empty casings fell like a brass rain, and Booly came to his feet. “This is what we’ve been waiting for!” the offi?cer bellowed. “You know what to do!”
Though not really expecting a rescue attempt, Booly and his staff had formulated plans for that eventuality, along with several others. So even though a third of the inmates were a bit slow on the uptake, two-thirds responded appropriately, as Hammerhand and his companions engaged the guards.
There were only two ways to enter or exit the pit, and both came under immediate pressure as the marine guards were forced to cower beneath a hail of airborne shoes, toothbrushes, and even an artifi?cial limb or two. All intended to keep them occupied while the would-be rescuers cut their way through layers of security.
Having been freed inside the storeroom where the normally empty coffi?ns were kept, the lightly armed Naa straightened their uniforms and stepped out into the hall. Then, having assumed an air of grim authority, the invaders headed for the pit. The stratagem couldn’t last forever, though, and their luck ran out when they tried to bluff their way into the prison and were forced to knife three guards. The challenge was to release enough prisoners quickly enough to hold the facility against the reinforcements that would soon arrive from elsewhere. Which was why Hammerhand followed the walkway he was on halfway around and opened fi?re on the second checkpoint. Because the facility had been designed to keep people in, rather than keep them out, the marines found themselves caught between a rock and a hard place. So when Hammerhand let up on the trigger, a white rag appeared, followed by six inches of the rifl?e barrel it was attached to. Two minutes later, the marines were facedown on the duracrete fl?oor while prisoners streamed past the control station and were formed into companies. Shots could still be heard elsewhere in the facility. But rather than send a mob to deal with marine holdouts, Booly ordered Major Drik Seeba-Ka to arm a single platoon of handpicked prisoners and secure the rest of the prison.
That move was met with considerable resentment on the part of the hard-core inmates, who not only wanted a chance to run amok but had scores to settle with the guards. But thanks to the manner in which they had been integrated into units controlled by strong no-nonsense NCOs, discipline was maintained. “We need to push our way out of the pit,” Booly told Colonel Kitty Kirby. “Or they’ll seal us inside. That’s what I would do.”
Kirby nodded grimly. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“And, Colonel . . .”
“Sir?”
“Do everything you can to minimize casualties. The marines are on our side, or will be, if we can put things right.”
Kirby came t
o attention and offered a salute. “Yes, sir!
Camerone!”
Booly returned the gesture, and because some of the troops had witnessed Kirby’s comments, the familiar shout went up. “CAMERONE!”
In spite of the fact that he had not been confi?rmed as president, Jakov had nevertheless taken over Nankool’s offi?ce, and was seated behind the missing man’s desk. And though not given to physical demonstrations of emotion, it was clear to everyone, including Assistant Undersecretary Kay Wilmot, that the vice president was extremely angry. “So, let me see if I understand,” the politician said coldly. “While you sat on your hands, a group of Naa terrorists were allowed to enter the fort and free hundreds of prisoners. Is that correct?”
“No,” a voice from the back of the room said. “That isn’t true. . . . There were only four of them, which hardly qualifi?es as a ‘group,’ and they aren’t terrorists.”
The crowd seemed to part of its own accord to reveal someone none of them recognized. A short, rather plump man, with black hair and Eurasian features. Just one of the bodies billionaire Admiral Sergi Chien-Chu could “wear”
when he chose to do so. And not the one that Jakov’s security forces had been looking for.
The stranger smiled woodenly. “What they are,” the businessman added reasonably, “is patriots. A title to which none of you can lay claim.”
Jakov was about to order his security detachment to arrest the intruder when there was a disturbance in the corridor. There was a shout, followed by a scuffl?e, and the sound of a single pistol shot. Then, before any of the offi?cials could react, General Bill Booly entered the room. The fi?ghting had been brisk, but was short-lived, as word of the prison break began to spread. Because the vast majority of the Legion continued to be loyal to Booly, as were many of the senior marine offi?cers, who resented the way in which they had been used. Now, with the exception of a few diehards, the battle to retake Fort Camerone was all but over.
The general, still clad in his prison-issue sweats, looked Jakov in the eye. His voice was hard and as cold as the outside air. “Good afternoon, Mr. Vice President. Unlike you and your cronies—we believe in the rule of law. So, consistent with the constitution, you will remain in offi?ce until President Nankool returns or you are confi?rmed. In the meantime, orders to the military will have to be cleared with the Senate’s leadership before my staff or I will be willing to act on them. Is that clear?”
Jakov felt a sudden surge of hope. And why not?
Nankool was almost certainly dead. And since each and every one of the senators was subject to political pressure of one sort or another, all he needed to do was squeeze, bully, or bribe them. So, if Booly and his band of starryeyed dreamers were stupid enough to grant him the gift of time, then who was he to refuse it? And later, once the presidency was his, each and every one of the bastards would be taken out and shot. “Yes,” Vice President Jakov said thoughtfully. “The situation is very clear indeed.”
17.
There are times when men have to die.
—United States Secretary of War Henry StimsonStandard year 1941
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
The sun rose slowly, as if reluctant to give birth to another day, and was nearly invisible above a layer of gauzy clouds. Bit by bit the heat penetrated the planet’s surface and began to tease moisture up out of the ground. The resulting mist shivered whenever a breeze came along to tug at it—
but seemed reluctant to part company with the row of crosses that appeared to fl?oat over it. Twelve of the POWs had been crucifi?ed. Not because of anything they had done, but because of something they hadn’t done, which was to reveal Nankool’s presence to the Ramanthians. That was Maximillian Tragg’s claim anyway. But as Vanderveen stood on one of the two crosspieces that were fastened to the centermost pole, she knew it was more than that. Especially in her case. Because to the renegade’s psychotic way of thinking, she had betrayed his trust. And made him look ridiculous, which was more than the mercenary’s fragile ego could handle.
There was something else, too. . . . Because once the newly constructed cross was laid out on the ground, and the diplomat had been forced to take her place on it, Tragg began to refer to her as “Marci,” a woman the renegade hated so much he insisted on driving the nails through Vanderveen’s wrists personally. The diplomat didn’t want to scream, and was determined not to, but the pain proved to be too much. So Vanderveen emptied her lungs as the spikes went in and saw how much pleasure that gave Tragg just before she fainted.
When Vanderveen awoke her cross was upright and fi?rmly planted in the ground. The center of what Tragg called his “garden.” Fortunately, most of the diplomat’s weight was supported by the crosspiece under her feet. The innovation was intended to extend both her life and her suffering. Which, without water, would probably last another fi?ve or six days. Or more if it rained. Not that it mattered because Vanderveen was in an altered state of consciousness when a shoulder-launched missile hit the watchtower located at the southeast corner of the compound. There was an explosion, followed by a loud boom, as hundreds of pieces of debris fell slowly toward the ground. That was followed by more explosions as the T-2s fi?red missiles at carefully selected targets, and large gaps began to appear in the fence.
“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Corley Calisco said, as the bombardment began. “The cavalry has arrived.”
Having fi?red their missiles, the ten-foot-tall war forms left the protection of the jungle, crossed the free-fi?re zone, and poured through newly created gaps in the security fence. There they were met by stiff resistance from the Ramanthian defenders, who, having been reinforced in the wake of the nymph attack, responded with a hail of gunfi?re from assault weapons, crew-served machine guns, and rocketpropelled grenades. Jas Hargo, the cyborg responsible for Major Hal DeCosta’s murder, placed one of his big podlike feet on a subsurface mine. There was a loud crump as the shaped charge went off and sent a jet of white-hot plasma upwards. The resulting explosion killed the bio bod who was strapped to the cyborg’s back and blew the T-2’s head off. It fell, rolled for a few feet, and came to rest looking upwards. That was when Hargo saw Snyder coming his way, and shouted
“No!” as a big metal pod descended on his face. Like his mount, Santana was completely oblivious to the manner of Hargo’s death as the cyborg’s brain box was crushed under him. Because just about all of the offi?cer’s attention was focused on the camp and the situation around him. Resistance was stiff, but that was to be expected, and the fi?rst objective had been achieved. The security fence had been breached—and Team Zebra had entered the compound! But where was Nankool? Batkin was in charge of fi?nding the chief executive but had yet to report in.
Snyder’s body began to jerk rhythmically as she opened fi?re with her .50-caliber machine gun. The big slugs tore into a fi?le of recently arrived Ramanthian troopers and ripped them apart. That was when the company commander spotted the row of crosses and knew the POWs must have been crucifi?ed after his departure the day before. One more group of people to remember once the extraction phase of the operation began.
It was a subject Santana continued to worry about because the pickup ships should have been in contact with him by then. Had the task force been intercepted? And, if so, what if anything could he do about it? But those thoughts were interrupted as Snyder spoke over the intercom. “Look at the cross in the middle, sir. Is that Miss Vanderveen?”
“No,” Santana responded automatically. “It can’t be because . . .” But then, as the offi?cer turned his head, he caught sight of some blond hair and made a grab for his binos. Snyder knew Vanderveen, having met the diplomat on LaNor, and could zoom in on any object she chose to.
So if the cyborg said that the person on the cross was Christine, then it might be true. And when the offi?cer brought the binos up he knew it was! More importantly, judging from a slight movement of her head, Vanderveen was alive!
That realization drove everything else
out of Santana’s mind. Fearful that Vanderveen might be killed by a stray bullet, Santana hurried to pull the plug on the intercom and hit the harness release. Snyder started to object as the offi?cer hit the ground, but spotted a Ramanthian with a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, and had to respond. Gomez was about a hundred feet away and watched in horror as Santana began to run. “Alpha Two-Six to Alpha Six,” the noncom said desperately, but received no reply as bullets whispered around the legionnaire. Meanwhile the gazebo-like structure at the center of the compound exploded into a thousand fi?ery pieces, and a series of explosions marched across the camp. The assault, which had been so focused to start with, was beginning to falter. Gomez was about to urge her cyborg forward, in hopes of reestablishing contact with Santana, when an RPG hit her T-2’s chest. The noncom felt the resulting explosion, knew both of them were falling, and hit the harness release. Gomez felt herself fall free, but took an unintended blow from one of Vantha’s outfl?ung arms, and the lights went out.
The attack on Camp Enterprise made the War Mutuu angry rather than frightened, which was why the Ramanthian took his sword and exited the administration building through the front door. He should have been killed immediately, as were two of his bodyguards, but it was as if nothing could touch the haughty warrior. Those POWs still strong enough to do so had joined the battle by then, some with weapons acquired from dead Ramanthians and others with little more than improvised spears. Two of them ran straight at the War Mutuu, hoping to impale the Ramanthian on their sharpened sticks, but the warrior twisted away. Steel fl?ashed, and blood sprayed the ground as the fi?rst human went down. The second screamed something the War Mutuu couldn’t understand, took a cut at the Ramanthian’s retrograde legs, and made contact. The warrior stumbled and regained his balance, just as an SLM made violent contact with a Ramanthian air car. There was a primary explosion, quickly followed by a secondary, as the vehicle crashed into the dispensary. Most of the patients were killed. But there was no time to consider such developments as the War Mutuu deployed his wings, jumped into the air, and cut the second POW down. The human produced an ear-piercing scream as the blade sank into his shoulder, but the sound was abruptly cut off, as the warrior’s sole surviving bodyguard shot the wounded prisoner. That was when the stern-faced aristocrat saw that one of the invading animals had abandoned the protection of his cyborg and was in the process of running toward the crosses. The War Mutuu had no particular interest in the POWs Tragg had chosen to crucify but wasn’t about to allow an attacker to give them aid. A bullet hummed past the Ramanthian’s head, and a chunk of shrapnel missed him by inches as the warrior turned toward the crosses and began to advance. Finally, after years of patient waiting, his moment of glory had come.
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