Murphy's Lawless: A Terran Republic Novel

by Charles E. Gannon

  The whinnie looked up and over Bo’s head. He resisted the urge to follow the animal’s gaze; he stepped forward and grabbed the reins. When the whinnie didn’t respond, Bo grabbed the saddle and swung himself up into the seat in one smooth motion. That was when he saw that the whinnie’s eyes were on Scout, twenty meters away. Who stood alert and staring at the whinnie he’d climbed aboard. The intensity of Scout’s eyes struck him.

  They’re not just smart. They’re almost—or actually?—intelligent.

  In the next breath, he mentally shook himself. Intelligent wasn’t necessarily the word he was looking for: they were sentient. They communicated verbally with their hoots and other noises. Like horses, they moved as a herd. Maybe they even had alphas and omegas. Societal instincts, intelligence, and communication spoke to something much more than they’d assumed the whinaalani to be. His mind reeling at the discovery, Bo forced himself back to the present and backed the whinnie into position for the harness.

  He pointed at Stewart. “Hook him up.”

  The sergeant and two others did so quickly. “Good to go, sir.”

  Bo leaned back in the saddle and looked over at the other rider, Specialist Davis. “You ready?”

  Davis, a tall and lanky Alabaman, nodded and drawled. “On you, sir.”

  Before he could respond, Specialist Sublete waved at him. “Sir, the first vehicle has reached the top of the pass.”

  Bo replied, “Tell them I’m on my way with the second. I’ll get back here as fast as I can. Sergeant Whittaker, you’re in charge until I get back. Let’s see just how much time we have.”

  Before he nudged the whinnie into action, he caught sight of the dust cloud along the northern horizon. It had doubled in size against R’Bak’s sky.

  Let’s hope it’s enough.

  * * *

  As Moorefield and Davis disappeared around the first bend of the trail with six soldiers pacing them on foot, Aliza caught Sergeant Whittaker’s eye. The old soldier sat astride his mount, Casper, staring at the dust cloud.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  He nodded once and looked back beyond her to the horizon. “The better of the four vehicles are headed up the pass. That means we’re fifty percent complete with this part of the mission.”

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  He laughed. “In ordinary circumstances, yes. This isn’t ordinary. Looks like we’ve got the whole damned J’Stull army headed this direction. And we’re forward, located away from the rest of our own ground forces. Gonna be a long day.”

  She followed his eyes to the dust cloud. There was no doubt the J’Stull were coming now. Word was that Tapper and his team had hit the enemy hard. The enemy would not merely want to eliminate their attackers, but make examples of them and, so, would accelerate across the valley floor. She looked over the defensive line of vehicles—all random shapes and weapons—and wondered how they could hold off an assaulting force of any size.

  “Is he thinking about using those vehicles down here instead of moving them up the pass? I don’t think they have a prayer of delaying the J’Stull, no matter how well we fight them.”

  “When the time comes, we’ll do what we have to do, Aliza.” Whittaker sighed. He spun his mount and called to Sergeant Stewart. “Set one hundred percent security. Push out a section to recon the north side of the pass, but no farther than Phase Line Sheridan.”

  Aliza squinted at him. “What is a phase line?”

  He laughed. “A control measure. We call it a phase line, which, in this case, is an intermittent creek bed about two klicks north. Giving it a code helps us relay information faster.”

  “And Sheridan?”

  “American Civil War general, Union side.” Whittaker grinned. “He was the quintessential cavalryman. Very colorful guy.”

  “Why use his name?”

  Whittaker’s grin faded. “He’s one of Captain Moorefield’s favorite generals. Gave the Confederates fits in West Virginia. Unpredictable and elusive. Exactly the guy we could use right now.”

  “And is Moorefield ‘that guy?’” she asked.

  Whittaker shrugged. “Could be. But he’s gotta have the heart for it.”

  Aliza wondered what the sergeant meant but did not have time to ask as Whittaker rode out to set the patrol into their duties.

  * * *

  The ride to the top of the pass went more smoothly than Bo would have dared to imagine. Once the whinnies snapped the towlines taut, they kept a constant, measured pace all the way up the two-kilometer trail. As they crested the top, Bo sent the walkers down the pass. Bo intended to join them as quickly as the recovery team from the camp could unhook the vehicle.

  Fortunately, Lieutenant Meehan had come through. The recovery team—a half-dozen mechanics and maintenance specialists with two vehicles from the motor pool—came forward with heavier tow chains. A squad of infantry was detailed to both sides of the trail, standing security. As soon as Bo and Davis had the crippled tactical over the lip and on mostly flat ground, the recovery team unhooked the hasty harnesses, draped them over the front of the two riders’ saddles, and started connecting the chains. The two strange vehicles—crude diesel command car-truck hybrids—rumbled to life, belching black exhaust into the air as they backed toward the tactical to put a little extra slack in the chains. Once attached, the recovery team mounted up, and the first vehicle gunned its engine, building the torque required to tow it swiftly to the rear. The smell of diesel exhaust never failed to bring back memories of the first time Bo had climbed aboard an Abrams main battle tank at Fort Knox. What he would have given for a few of those beautiful beasts on R’Bak. The ability to see, positively identify, and then engage targets thousands of meters away would have been a beautiful thing.

  As the first recovery vehicle started towing the tactical away, Bo turned to Davis. “Get down the hill with these harnesses. Get the next one ready.” The young specialist pivoted his mount and galloped back toward the men readying the last two vehicles. Bo glanced around, found the RTO for the security patrol Meehan had sent, and waved him over, making a “give me” motion as he reached for the handset. “Starkpatch, this is Saber Six. Fifty percent of the disabled tacticals are on the plateau. We’re heading back for the rest now. Over.”

  “Saber Six, be advised. OP Two says enemy forces are heading that way. Not sure you’ll have time to recover them all. Over,” Meehan replied.

  “They are mission imperative. We’re not leaving them.” Bo frowned. “We’ll just have to move faster, Starkpatch.”

  “Sir, all due respect, you can’t buy time you don’t have.”

  “The hell I can’t,” Bo snarled into the handset. “Saber Six, out.”

  With a nod at the RTO, Bo whirled the whinnie back toward the trail. This male didn’t respond like Scout did, but it moved well enough, and fast enough, to settle Bo’s mind to the task at hand.

  You can’t buy time you don’t have.

  A force of unknown strength was bearing down on them. His cavalry patrol couldn’t fight them off, and the retreat from Camp Stark back to the main assembly area was poised to start. If the enemy kept coming at the rate Bo thought they were, even the retreat could fail. The paltry forces forward at Camp Stark, or any of the other smaller posts Murphy had set out for different missions, wouldn’t be able to develop a concerted defense. Everything dirtside was in danger.

  I have to buy time.

  As quickly as the thought crossed his mind, he smiled. It could be done. All he had to do was sell it to Sergeant Whittaker and Aliza Turan. She’d wanted to check out the higher ground for trails and viable passes. Well, now she would have her chance.

  When he turned the corner at the bottom of the pass, Bo saw the dust cloud from the enemy advance rising higher than before. He caught sight of his patrol hooking up the third vehicle under the watchful eyes of Aliza and Whittaker. As he closed the gap, he saw her looking at him and his stomach churned. She would not like what he had i
n mind. Using her and the bulk of the patrol—the rest of the newbies—as bait didn’t set well with him. Something in his gut said she would like it even less, and he realized that was exactly why it bothered him.

  * * *

  “You want me to what?” Aliza asked Moorefield, dumbfounded. She raised her palms to him. “Just so I understand you, please.”

  The young captain licked his lips and started again. “You and Sergeant Whittaker will take your sections north along the skirts of the tableland at a gallop. I want you to raise as much dust as you can and make the enemy think there’s more of us with you than over here at the pass. A lot more. It will buy us additional time to get these last two vehicles up to the recovery team.”

  She shook her head and a nervous laugh came out. “You’re making a big assumption.”

  “More than one; I am aware,” he replied. “But the whinnies will find a way up into the middle slopes at the edge of the plateau. All you have to do is to attract the enemy’s attention for fifteen minutes. The whinnies will do the rest. When the J’Stull turn and chase you, we’ll counterattack into their exposed flank.”

  “And what about when the enemy storms our position on the slopes of the tableland, Captain Moorefield? What then?” The anger in her voice surprised her, but she’d seen firsthand the consequences of poor planning and uneven execution.

  “You let me handle that, Aliza.” He lowered his chin and frowned, but there was still a twinkle in his eye. “Whittaker has command. All you and the newbies have to do is make your patrol look like a herd of elephants.”

  “And if we don’t find a way up?”

  “You will. We’ll be there before they can attack you with any strength, I promise.”

  The calm, confident look on his face and the slow smile threatening to crease it made Aliza smile involuntarily. A sudden grit-laden gust made her blink and sweep her hair away from her face in one movement. When she opened her eyes, not more than a second had passed, and he was still looking at her in the same manner. In the next heartbeat, she realized that she liked it, and it only made her smile wider.

  “Well…” She paused. “We’ll have to raise some dust and find a way up between the cliffs.”

  His smile widened and his teeth shone. “You do that, Aliza. We’re counting on you.”

  She nodded. “We won’t let you down.”

  “Trust the whinnies,” he blurted. She frowned, not certain what he meant. “I think they’re smarter than we think.”

  She squinted at him. “In what way?”

  “When I took that other mount…well, whatever Scout and Athena vocalized got through to it. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the one who calmed him.”

  “They are very vocal animals,” she replied, but the rest of the thought stopped on her lips. They’d casually assumed control over the whinaalani, as if they were little more than clever farm animals trained to submit to human dominance. She took in a breath in a sudden flash of realization. “What if we’ve gotten them all wrong?”

  Moorefield nodded and took a long breath. His voice was low when he said, “I think we have from the very start. I’m not sure if they understand what we’re saying to them, but I think they understand our emotions somehow.”

  “That’s fascinating.” She shook her head even as recollections of Athena’s behaviors when being ridden and called played through her memory, like quick clips from a newsreel; the speed and surety of her responses were unlike any horse she’d even known. “You think they are sentient?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Honestly, we don’t have time to think about it. Just trust them. Get ready to move out as soon as Sergeant Whittaker is ready.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Thank you.” He tipped the brim of his boonie hat and nodded to her. “Just one more thing? Call me Bo.”

  He turned away to direct his soldiers. Heart trip-hammering in her chest, Aliza turned back to Athena and heard the distinct purring sound the female whinaalani made when content. Athena’s angular head turned toward her; the wide, dark eyes studied her for a moment before their focus turned back to the others. Soldiers from the third and fourth sections who’d dismounted to assist with the tow operation climbed aboard their whinnies. Across the road, Whittaker spoke with Moorefield and pointed first in the direction of the game trail they’d used to descend from the tableland and then out across the ragged bluffs to the north and east.

  “Third and fourth sections, mount up,” she heard Whittaker call. She climbed aboard Athena smoothly and nudged the whinnie toward the soldiers. Astride Scout once again, Moorefield trotted toward her.

  “One more thing,” he called.

  “Yes?”

  His lips were a tight, thin line. “If Sergeant Whittaker asks you to do something, please do it. There will be a good reason he’s asking. I know you’ve had some experience in the field, but this is one time I can’t have you not following Top’s orders—or even his advice or requests. So if, for example, he tells you to stay somewhere, we need you to stay the hell there. Do you understand, Aliza?”

  A bolt of electricity shot down her spine. Aliza’s mouth fell open, and she snapped it closed. With a nod, she acknowledged Moorefield’s request without trusting herself to speak. Her words wouldn’t have been something she could explain in the time they had. Try as she might, she could not stop hearing Ben Mazza’s voice insisting she do the same thing, just before he’d disappeared over the hill above the Nahal Kziv.

  And never came back.

  * * *

  Bo watched the screening party under Whittaker and Aliza gallop east along the edge of the bluffs. He hoped they would quickly find a viable route up the steep sides of the tableland. He chuckled. “Hope” was not a term he associated with combat. His last Army squadron commander, before he’d done his tour in Mogadishu, had been a career light infantryman placed in charge of a cavalry unit almost against his will. His view of mounted operations skewed far into the negative range. Lieutenant Colonel Peabody wasn’t a negative person, but his view of things was both realistic and memorable. Among his favorite sayings was that hope was not a method. No real come-back for that axiom, Bo admitted.

  He gave the departing patrol one last long glance and then turned back to the towing operation, intent on getting the last two vehicles up the hill as quickly as the first two so he could support—and protect—his screen as soon as possible.

  Sublete was waiting, radio handset outstretched as Bo turned in his direction. “Sir? OP Two.”

  Bo took the handset from Sublete. “Saber Six, go.”

  “Saber Six, OP Two. Relay from orbital assets via Glass Palace. Regimental-sized enemy force moving your direction. Estimated distance to your location is twenty-three kilometers. Estimated speed of lead elements is forty-one kilometers per hour. ETA to you is less than three zero minutes. Acknowledge. Over.”

  The gnawing sensation in his gut threatened to burgeon into nausea.

  “OP Two, roger. Relay to Glass Palace: acknowledged. We are Charlie Mike. Over.” Charlie Mike meant continuing the mission. He’d picked up the slang from the Vietnam veterans and while not established procedure, it seemed to fit best.

  “Saber Six. Acknowledged and wilco. Out.”

  Thirty minutes.

  Shit.

  There wasn’t time to lament the timing or the situation. The third stalled vehicle, towed by two whinnies and their riders from the second section, strained against the straps for a moment before the broken platform rolled forward slowly.

  Bo watched the creeping progress. Every rotation of the platform’s wheels produced a squealing sound.

  “Sounds like a bad bearing. Maybe a few,” Sublete said.

  “You have a maintenance background?”

  The young sandy haired soldier shook his head. “Not in the army, sir. But around the farm, everything had a bad bearing at one time or another.”

  Bo nodded and analyzed the entire operation for a moment and tried not to wi
nce. The pace of the third vehicle was nothing like the previous two. Bo calculated the two whinnies had towed both previous vehicles up the pass in less than fifteen minutes. That would not be the case with the remaining two tacticals.

  “Sergeant Cook?” Bo called over to the section leader. “Get the last one tied up and moving. We’re short on time. Might be tight up there, but it’s necessary to reduce the interval.”

  “Aw, hell,” Bo heard Sublete mutter under his breath.

  He glanced toward the moving vehicle and saw that’s its forward momentum was half of what it had been in the loose soil. Even with four soldiers pushing it at ground level, the vehicle barely moved forward.

  “Cook! Get a third whinnie on that vehicle. Push it if you have to.”

  “Copy, sir.” The young sergeant whirled his mount and called for another whinnie and rider to get behind the vehicle and push. As awkward as that position was, the whinnie used its chest and left front leg to grab the rear of the platform near the ammunition supply deck and pushed. Moving on three legs didn’t seem to bother the animal, and several of the other whinnies made low, rumbling sounds. Bo heard and felt Scout make the same sound, and he instinctively patted the animal’s neck.

  “You like what you’re seeing, don’t you?” Bo said in a low voice. “You get us, don’t you? I don’t think you know what we’re saying, but you get it, huh?”

  Scout turned his long neck hard to the left and faced Bo for a short moment. He snorted once and returned his gaze to the towing of the third platform, as did Bo. It was moving at a better pace, made the first switchback turn, and headed up the winding, two-kilometer trail. Bo looked around. There were a few indigs and soldiers left from the raiding party along with two whinnies from the second section and himself. It would have to be enough.

  “C’mon, Scout.” Bo nudged his mount toward the rear of the fourth vehicle. “We’re gonna do the same thing, buddy. Give it a push.”

  Scout moved forward without being nudged, and Bo shook his head. Murphy and the others needed to know what they’d discovered. There was no doubt the whinnies understood the situation. Several of them stamped their feet anxiously.