Murphy's Lawless: A Terran Republic Novel

by Charles E. Gannon

  Bo kept talking. “Behind us, Sergeant Whittaker and Miss Turan will bring down third and fourth sections. Before you ask, Miss Turan, I can’t spare the manpower to take you and the newbies to camp. You’re with us and you’re in charge of that section. Once we know what the situation is with the Seeker Six’s patrol, and their pursuers, we’ll plan our next move. We need to see what the bad guys send after our folks, adjust our plan to counter it, and give Camp Stark a chance to evacuate.”

  “Evacuate?” Turan blurted.

  “That’s right,” Bo replied. “We may have to pull out of Camp Stark and move back toward the area we were reserving for final force consolidation. I’m guessing Major Murphy is already working that piece of the puzzle right now. We’ll make sure they prepare the camp to evacuate and beat feet to the rear. That’s step six or seven on the list. We’ve got more important things to handle between now and then.”

  “You think the…the J’Stull will attack?” Aliza asked.

  Bo nodded. “I think they’re gonna come after our raiding party with everything they have. But a good cavalry arm always protects the main body. We’ll simply do this the old-fashioned way.”

  Whittaker nodded. “I don’t suppose you mean artillery and air support, sir.”

  “Not at all, Top,” Bo replied. “Fire and maneuver. That’s really all we have if we can’t get those vehicles moving. And we’re gonna have to bust our asses to get them to safety.”

  Whittaker nodded. “Our indig guide never showed, sir.”

  “A sure sign of an attack,” Sergeant Cook remarked under his breath. “I knew we shouldn’t have trusted those guys.”

  Most of the section leaders murmured their assent, though none of them would make eye contact with Bo. They didn’t trust anyone but themselves. Bo didn’t believe that to be a bad thing, necessarily, but the sergeants didn’t seem to trust him or any of the officers, either. He met Whittaker’s eyes and the older sergeant nodded confidently at him. He hadn’t felt as proud since he’d been a second lieutenant and managed not to screw up being a platoon leader on the first try.

  Another crunch sounded in the distance, this time much louder. The whinnies, normally docile and quiet, shuffled and stamped their feet. Two trumpeted nervously. Some newbies appeared on the verge of panic in their saddles, but the more experienced riders all went to their aid and calmed their mounts quickly and, most importantly, quietly.

  Aliza spoke up. “The indig: do you think the J’Stull planted him to spy on us? Determine strength and position for the enemy to gauge the attack?”

  Impressed, Bo shrugged. “Great question. We don’t know. But right now, it doesn’t really matter. We have to get down there in order to help the raiding party get those vehicles up onto high ground and back to our compound. If I’m right about the attack, we don’t have much time at all.” They all nodded, even Turan, which he took as a good sign. Bo pointed at the sand table. “If they hit us while we’re moving the vehicles, here’s what we’re gonna do.”

  * * *

  Bo led the patrol down the mountain as fast as he dared let Scout run. A look over his shoulder proved that both the newbies and the experienced riders were having trouble keeping his pace. Brush tore at his sleeves as Scout bounded down the narrow trail toward the valley floor. Bo relaxed and allowed his hips and lower body to remain attached to the whinnie’s side and his body to follow every move the big animal made without expending too much energy. He gave Scout a kick with his right heel, urging him to go faster. The whinnie responded with a lurch forward; Bo snapped backward in the saddle. The nearby flora blurred as Scout accelerated down the steep hill, and Bo smiled and tried not to let out a whoop of excitement.

  Barreling through the scrub, they burst onto the valley floor about two hundred meters from the trail leading up the tight pass. Behind a small hill, they were hidden from both the approaching patrol and the enemy. He’d ridden Scout a few times at as full a gallop as the whinnies could go, but bouncing through the brush and from rock outcrop to outcrop left him slightly out of breath, if exhilarated.

  Sergeant Cook’s section was the first down the trail; his soldiers were all experienced riders. Bo motioned them to move ahead of him and pointed along the base of the hill in the direction of the raiding party. As Cook met his eyes, Bo held up two fingers and pointed them at his eyes. Holding his arm still, he then rotated his fingers to point out, he pointed with his other hand in the direction of the potential enemy patrol. The hand and arm signal to set far side security communicated exactly what Bo wanted them to do without having to either use a radio or use their voices in a tactical environment. Cook and his section of four mounts moved off in the direction he’d indicated.

  Second section, under the leadership of Staff Sergeant Stewart, came next. Bo repeated the hand and arm signal, but only pointed at his eyes to indicate near side security. The four mounted soldiers were a mix of experienced riders and newer trainees, but as they galloped toward the convoy, Bo noted that all of their faces were confident and ready.

  Third and fourth sections finished their progress down the slope last and almost at the same time, though, technically, he hadn’t outfitted a fourth section. Sergeant First Class Whittaker led third section, but with the addition of the newbies under Miss Turan’s tutelage, they’d made her a section leader by default, and Whittaker moved those new riders into a fourth section. As they reached level ground, Bo walked Scout out and had them follow behind him. With the security deployed forward, he was again in the lead of the formation as the patrol moved toward the convoy.

  Bo heard the convoy before he saw them. The sounds of the vehicles differed vastly from anything he’d heard. Some of them sounded like internal combustion engines. Others sounded like turbines. None of them sounded particularly well-maintained or reliable. As they rounded the ragged bottom of a bluff, Bo stood in his saddle for a first glimpse of them…

  And thought, Well, shit.

  At least three of the vehicles were smoking and one sat askew on the trail, its front end deeply jammed into the loose dirt. Sergeant Stewart appeared to be talking to Lieutenant Tapper. He looked up, saw Bo approaching, and came riding as fast as his whinnie could go.

  “Sir!” Stewart reined up the whinnie and skidded to a stop a few meters away. “The El-Tee says they got priority wounded. At least two are critical. They’re taking three of the lightest vehicles up the pass to get medical attention. There are seventeen more remaining behind with drivers. Most of them aren’t fully crewed.”

  Bo chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. Moving the wounded was the most prudent action they could have taken. “They leaving anyone else behind?”

  “Besides the drivers and gunners? A few indig crewmen,” Stewart said. “They’re trying to get the four dead-lined vehicles moving again.”

  “Why? What are they?”

  “Tacticals.” Stewart frowned. The heavy assault vehicles were one of the critical requirements for Tapper’s team to capture in their raid. Two bore missile systems and two had multiple rotating machine guns: all weapons that would improve their chances against anyone who might thumb a nose in the Lost Soldiers’ direction. Recovering them was a mission requirement.

  Dammit. “Get back to Tapper and have him get the seventeen ready vehicles into a defensive line, facing those dust clouds. Maximum concealment. Use the terrain and the brush as much as you can. We’re gonna figure out a way to get those four busted tacticals up the pass. We’ll need everyone else pulling security in case the enemy recon assets fix our position and strike while we’re moving those platforms.”

  Stewart nodded. “How many of the ready vehicles do you want for towing the tacticals, Captain?”

  “None.”

  Stewart flinched as if he’d been struck. “Sir?”

  Bo hooked a thumb at the winding, rock-strewn pass behind him. “Look at the width of that pass and the width of those vehicles. Some of them will barely fit. And give their engines a listen,
Sergeant. I’m not sure they’ll make it up as it is. But towing those tacticals?” Bo shook his head. “It would be like a go-cart trying to pull a car. One failure and we’ve got two vehicles blocking the pass. We have to get the tacticals up another way.”

  Stewart’s face clouded. “Begging your pardon, sir, but how?”

  “We’ll tow them with the whinnies,” Bo replied. He had no idea if the whinnies could actually drag the vehicles behind them or not, but the leap seemed logical. Or at least unavoidable. “We may have to tear apart some saddles to get enough rope and cords, but we can do it. Tell Cook to bring in his security as tight as possible and, as soon as the ready vehicles are deployed, find out which of them need crews. On the double.”

  “You got it, sir,” Stewart replied and galloped back toward Cook’s position near the bottom of the pass.

  Bo looked over his shoulder and caught the eye of his RTO. Sublete moved forward on his mount. “Radio.” Sublete passed him the handset. Bo nodded his thanks before holding the ancient piece up to his face like a telephone. “OP One, this is Saber Six. SITREP to relay. Over.”

  “Copy, Saber Six. Send it.”

  “Relay to Starkpatch: convoy minus four vehicles secured. Friendlies moving up the pass. Time now. Multiple wounded requiring further evac. Break.”

  Bo released the transmit button. Whether the J’Stull or anyone else could direction-find their UHF transmissions was an unknown, but prudence said to maintain communications discipline as they always had. And there just wasn’t the time to wait for orbital assets to be in a position for secure ground-to-bird and then bird-to-ground relays.

  He pressed the switch again, “We are executing recovery operations to move four dead-lined vehicles. Push security elements forward to receive wounded and prepare to support my patrol by indirect fire. I want all mortars on the line and ready to send it. Prepare to execute contingency Charlie. I say again, prepare to execute contingency Charlie. How copy?”

  The observation post RTO read back Bo’s message verbatim and added, “Saber Six, relay commencing. Please confirm contingency Charlie.”

  “Contingency Charlie is confirmed. Danger close is authorized, if necessary.”

  “Copy that, Saber Six. OP Two reports there is biologic activity in your AO and other indications that there is an unknown size force moving this direction from north-northwest. Over.”

  “Copy,” Bo replied. “We’ve seen it. Report change in size or identification when you can. Saber Six, out.”

  He passed the handset back to Sublete. “Keep a good ear on that, Sublete. Unless they call for me directly, just relay the information. Stay close. Got it?”

  “Will do, sir,” Sublete replied. “I’ll be your shadow.”

  Bo grinned. “You do that.”

  He made a fist, raised it over his head, and brought it down like he was miming it hammering the top of his helmet. The signal for “form on me” brought Whittaker and Aliza Turan forward, their whinnies moving at a trot.

  Bo gave them a bare-bones SITREP. When he mentioned the four disabled tacticals, Whittaker raised an eyebrow. Bo nodded grim agreement. “Yep. Gonna be rough. But I think the whinnies could be the answer. Using tow chains, we hitch them two or three per vehicle.”

  Whittaker’s face remained still. “How?”

  “We lash together harnesses, using pieces of the newbies’ saddles and tack.”

  “We need those saddles to keep training,” Aliza objected.

  Bo shook his head. “If these vehicles don’t get up the pass and integrated into our overall defenses, we won’t have any opportunities to train anyone on anything.”

  She frowned but did not reply. Her eyes were serious and calm, and she’d taken his comment without a shred of contempt or challenge. Her demeanor suggested that she was prepared to listen to him and act responsibly.

  No, that’s not it. He chided himself as the answer bubbled up: She’s acting like a soldier. “Can either of you lash? Or weave? Good with knots? Anything to make those harnesses?”

  Whittaker grunted. “Willing to bet we have at least one Eagle Scout in the bunch.”

  “What is that?” Aliza asked and then shook her head. “Not important. We’ll make it work.”

  Bo smiled. “Aliza, some of your newbies may have to dismount and help crew the ready vehicles, anyway. Use their saddles first. See what you can do.”

  “I will.”

  Bo looked at Whittaker. “We need two whinnies per tactical, minimum. I want good riders up there, too. If that means we can only send two vehicles at a time, so be it. I want the first ones moving as soon as they’re ready.”

  “What about them?” Whittaker cocked his head toward the rising dust cloud to the north.

  Bo looked over his shoulder for a long moment. There really wasn’t any option. “First and second sections are providing security now. The minute we get the tacticals moving up the pass, we’ll focus on how to skin that cat.”

  Or maybe, kill it.

  * * *

  Whittaker had been correct. Two of the newbies, a private from the American contingent of Vietnam vets and one of the Brits had been Scouts and knew their way around ropes and straps. Aliza watched them strip saddle materials and reins, tie them into ropes, and rig up makeshift harnesses for two of the largest whinnies. She watched as Moorefield and Whittaker set about hooking them up to the lead tactical. The first whinnie, with a black-tipped tail, stepped into the trail and backed into the harness with ease. A darker male with a crimson blaze on its angular forehead took some coaxing, but finally, anxiously, backed into position. With quick work and quiet, purposeful direction from Moorefield, they tied the harnesses into place. The young captain clearly had experience working with animals, and the whinnies were surprisingly compliant.

  The riders nudged the whinnies and the tow straps snapped tight as they strained against the weight of the broken-down vehicle. Its wheels inched forward. A cheer erupted from the group as the whinnies pulled harder, gaining momentum.

  “Hey! Step in there and push it,” Moorefield ordered a group of soldiers standing nearby. “Get them moving faster.”

  The soldiers stepped behind the vehicle and put their hands and shoulders into it. The vehicle rolled forward faster and faster. The black-tailed whinnie snorted a call and leaned into the weight hard, its head low to the ground. Almost immediately, the darker male did the same and the rate of the vehicle’s forward progress doubled and then doubled again. They were moving up the steepening hill at a good pace.

  “Stay behind it!” Bo pointed at the soldiers pushing the vehicle. “All the way to the top.”

  Whittaker’s voice boomed nearby. “Get the second vehicle hooked up!”

  Aliza watched the first vehicle move up the pass and then almost disappear when it went around the first curving switchback. While the towing appeared to work well, it was slow. Too slow. She nudged Athena and walked over to Moorefield. His eyes followed the effort to hook up the second vehicle and get it moving.

  “This is too slow,” she said in a low voice. “We won’t get all of them up the pass.”

  He turned to her with a frown on his face. “I know. We just have to do the best we can, Aliza.”

  She didn’t respond. His casual use of her first name sent a ripple of excitement down her spine. Her own reaction shocked her—until she started at a whinnie bellowing directly behind her.

  Aliza spun to see one of the more experienced riders holding on to his saddle for dear life as his whinnie bucked and thrashed in the makeshift harness. Several soldiers shouted commands and advice, but there was panic all over the rider’s face and he half-fell and half-jumped clear. He hit the dirt, rolled, and scrambled away from the whinnie. Without its rider, the animal calmed down, but twisted and shook like a wet dog, trying to throw off the ropes connecting it to the second disabled vehicle.

  Moorefield dismounted his whinnie and ran toward the distressed one. A few meters away, he stopped, and she could h
ear his low voice talking calmly. She lost his words in the slight breeze and the ambient noise around her. His whinnie, still at her side, trumpeted softly and a few others repeated the noise with their own distinct voices. The anxious whinnie calmed, stamped two of its feet in rapid succession, and then turned to stare unpleasantly at Moorefield as he stepped closer.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  R’Bak

  When he was eighteen, Bo and his father took in three horses from a neighboring farm that had fallen into disrepair. The lush green fields of northern Mississippi gave the animals enough in their pasture to eat, but they hadn’t had real interaction with human beings in the several months of their previous owner’s illness. When Bo and his dad arrived, the old mare of the group trotted over happily and let them get a lead onto her without much trouble. The other two horses stayed a good hundred meters away, eyeing them warily.

  It took more than an hour to get the older male calmed down and led to the gate. The younger stud stomped in circles as Bo talked to it like his father always did. His father leaned against the front fender of the old Ford truck and watched for an hour as Bo tried and failed repeatedly. Disgusted, he’d walked over, leaned a hip against the nearest headlight, and spat. His father smiled.

  As Bo stared down the whinnie, he heard his father’s voice as clear as ever. No two animals are the same, Bo. What works for one doesn’t always work for the other.

  With Scout, he’d never raised his voice or violently spurred the animal. The whinnie had always responded. The anxious one appeared to take little notice of Bo’s attempt at soothing words. He stayed quiet and walked forward confidently and slowly. The whinnie watched him approach and stilled.

  Easy. He didn’t say the word aloud; it was more a matter of willing it at the big lizard. Easy, boy.