Murphy's Lawless: A Terran Republic Novel

by Charles E. Gannon

  “He’d need one of our bigger whinnies, but I don’t see any reason why not.”

  “I love horses,” Dork said. “I rode a lot back home.”

  “Then you’ll do fine with a whinnie,” the woman said. She patted her whinnie’s shoulder. “Athena and her friends are a lot smarter and easier to ride. If you could sit a horse, you can easily ride a whinnie.”

  “Okay,” Dork said, brightening. “I’ll come over as soon as I can.”

  “Good,” Bowden said. “Make sure Renaldi gets over here, too.”

  * * *

  Bowden sighed as he looked at the interface craft’s laser designator the next morning. Despite the number of times he’d asked to have the wires run through the box and directly into the wing’s hardpoint, the designator looked like a bowl of spaghetti, with wires hanging out of it and running every which way, not bundled up in nice zip-tied runs like he was used to with US military aircraft. If there was time, that still had to be fixed. If the stupid box hadn’t been welded shut, he would have done it himself a long time ago.

  “Hey, Kevin, got a moment?” a voice asked from behind him, and he turned to see Tom Byrd.

  “Yeah,” Bowden said. He nodded to the designator. “That’s still not the way I asked for it to be.”

  Byrd nodded after a quick glance. “It’s just begging for something to come by and rip all the wires out of it.”

  “My thoughts exactly. What’s up?”

  Byrd looked at him for a second. “This may not be any of my business,” he said finally, “but why aren’t you leading this mission? You seem to know all the tech better than any of us, and you’ve done all of the target analysis…just seems like you should be leading it, and you’re not even going.”

  Bowden turned back to the laser designator, unable to meet Byrd’s eyes, and smoothed one of the wires. “I can’t,” he said. “I just can’t.” He played with another of the wires, waiting for Byrd to leave, but he could tell the aviator was still standing behind him. Bowden sighed and turned around.

  “My last mission didn’t end well. It was in Somalia.”

  “Somalia?” Byrd asked. “I’m not even sure I know where that is. Africa, maybe? What the hell were you doing there?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone really knew.” He shrugged. “It is in Africa by the way, and if there is a place that is the direct opposite of Vietnam, it’s Somalia. Dry, arid, and very few trees.” He sighed, remembering.

  “The place went to shit in 1991, when the country’s dictator was overthrown in a military coup staged by a coalition of opposition warlords. Then the warlords began fighting among themselves, and the country fell apart. Everybody there was starving…it was pretty awful. We went in as part of an international humanitarian and peacekeeping effort, but nobody really wanted us there. The various militias disregarded the cease-fires that were in place, and all of them looted and pillaged what they could. Basically, the place just sucked ass.

  “Right at the end, there was a guy we wanted to catch—a guy named Aidid—who we knew was responsible for a lot of the badness. We sent in a bunch of guys to grab some of his folks, but the indigs shot down a couple of helicopters and killed a bunch of our people. Newspapers had lots of pictures of the locals doing awful things to their bodies. We decided to kill him, and I led a mission to bomb the building he was hiding in.”

  Bowden sighed, a lot heavier this time. “Only it turns out the guy that sold us the location didn’t play straight with us; he gave us Aidid’s chief rival, who was attending his daughter’s wedding at a place outside of town. We couldn’t get anyone close to the building to confirm Aidid’s presence, but the chain of command went ahead and authorized the strike anyway.

  “Just as my bombs hit the building, a little girl, all dressed in white, ran out the front door of the building—a church—and the force of the explosion threw her almost thirty meters.” Bowden saw her small limbs spread wide as she cartwheeled through the air, and he choked back a sob. “She…” He swallowed, reliving the end of the memory, then set his shoulders and continued, “She was impaled on the wrought iron fence that went around the yard.” He sniffed and wiped his eyes.

  “The last…the last thing I saw on my targeting camera was her twitching, broken body on the fence, her hand outstretched to the mother she’d never see again.”

  His breath shuddered out of him. “The newspapers back home ran the picture of the little girl the next day, in color, calling for blood. My blood. I’d have been happy to let them have it. The chain of command sent me home for the official investigation, but I ended up—” he waved a hand at his surroundings, “—here.”

  Byrd looked away. “Yeah. Shit happens in wars sometimes. Just be glad you never saw napalm used, or anyone who got it on them. That’s a sight.” He swallowed. “Let me just say it’s unforgettable, even if it wasn’t your bombs that did it.” He turned back to Bowden. “In your case, even though the bombs were yours, hitting the wrong target wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t know the targeting was bad or that the guy lied. You’re not to blame for the girl.”

  Bowden shook his head and poked himself in the chest. “My plane. My bombs. My thumb on the button. That’s how the little girl got impaled on the fence. So, bottom line: I did it. And I won’t do it again. I can’t.”

  * * *

  “Lieutenant Bowden!” a voice yelled as someone shook him. It seemed like he’d just gone to sleep after a second day of trying to get the aircraft the way they were supposed to be, so the new weapons systems could be tested out the next day. And the laser designators still hadn’t been rewired.

  “Mphf?” he asked.

  “Lieutenant! You’re needed at the command tent for a radio call. Quick—there’s only a couple minutes of, uh, connectivity!”

  He rolled out of his cot and started pulling on his boots.

  “No time for that, sir!” the private standing by his cot exclaimed. “We have to go now!”

  Bowden didn’t bother lacing the boots; he got up and raced after the private, who waved at the people standing guard at the command tent, and they held open the flap. Not even a framed door, yet.

  The Army captain he’d been sitting next to in the doomed Blackhawk—Bo Moorefield—nodded when he saw Bowden. Not even a smile as he waved him to come over to the comms console. So: it was that bad.

  Moorefield barked into radio handset, “Glass Palace this is Starkpatch. Lieutenant Bowden is present, over.”

  “Bowden, Murphy here. We only have a minute before we run out of line-of-sight comms, but H-Hour is right now. Last pass had the vehicles in the target area wired up and running; they’re charging the transmitter. We have to stop that from happening. I need you to get the mission underway ASAP!”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Bowden said. “We’ll get the aircraft loaded and out as quickly as we can.”

  “Understood. Three updates for you. First, the two mech columns—one that Captain Moorefield is readying now, and another under Lieutenant Tapper—will not get to the target as soon as you do. The most optimistic estimates put them an hour behind.

  “Second, Captain Moorefield is sending a squad with the two handheld designators on whinnie-back, led by Aliza Turan. They’re going to try to get into place by the time you reach the antenna.”

  “Good, glad to have them. A ground designate ups the chances of mission success exponentially.”

  “It’s good for something else.”

  Uh oh. “What’s that?”

  “I need you to fly the mission,” Murphy said. “Captain Hirst broke his ankle last night playing soccer and can’t do it. You have to fill in for him.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You have to. Byrd will hit the control station, Fiezel the antenna. You are only flying airborne back up. Even if you’re needed, there will be a ground designate. Your bombs will go where they’re supposed to.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Lieutenant, you must, and you
know it,” Murphy said, his voice noticeably fading. “I don’t want to make this an order. But if you don’t fly the mission, we’ll all be—”

  Static.

  “That’s it,” Moorefield said when Murphy’s voice didn’t come back again. “What do you need from me?”

  I can do this, Bowden thought, squaring his shoulders. I don’t have to drop bombs; just go along as the spare. Byrd is a RIO—he knows his shit. He’ll flatten the control station. I won’t have to drop.

  “Kevin?” Moorefield asked. “What do you need from me?”

  And there’s a team on the ground to designate the target. It’s their fault if a bomb goes astray, not mine. I can do this. It won’t be my fault.

  “Lieutenant Bowden, you heard Murphy. We’re on a countdown clock, now. I repeat: what do you need from me?”

  I can do this. I have to do this. Everyone is counting on me. All I need to do is fly, not actually drop bombs. I can do this. I will do this. Bowden focused his eyes on Moorefield. “Just thinking about what needs to be done,” he lied. “Murphy said you can send someone to lead my two ground designate guys?”

  “I’m sending Aliza Turan and Sergeant Cook’s squad along with them. They’re our most accomplished whinnie riders. If anyone can get your guys to where they need to be, it’s them.”

  “Good. Get them moving right away; they’ll take the longest to get there. Then call over to the airfield; we need the aircraft prepped and loaded, ASAP.” And the bombs and missiles still had to be assembled, and there were a million other final details that needed to be overseen. This was the clusterfuck to end all clusterfucks. He looked down and realized he was still in his pajamas. “I guess I ought to get dressed, too.” He smiled, trying to push back the feelings that rose up, trying to overwhelm him, drag him under, drown him in paralyzing fear. Fear of flying a bombing mission again, even as an observer. “I can wake up the crews on my way.”

  Okay. This is just like the last-second surprise missions they’d add to the flight schedule in Fallon, just to see if the air wing could rise to the occasion, Bowden thought. Except here, I’m missing all the people I would normally have to support me. But dammit, we’re naval air. Can we do it? You bet your ass we can!

  * * * * *

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  R’Bak

  Aliza Turan woke to voices in the dark and froze for a second until her brain was awake enough to focus. She’d thought the memory had been put behind her, but vestiges of it were still obviously lurking in the dark places of her mind.

  “Over there,” a woman said grumpily, pointing to Aliza.

  A shadow moved from the woman who’d spoken to Aliza’s bed. “Miss Turan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Captain Moorefield needs you at the command tent.”

  “Be right there,” she said, now fully awake. She smiled. Being needed always catapulted her out of the past and into the present; it made everything right and reminded her that, yes, she had a purpose in life again.

  As soon as the man left, she pushed off the scratchy blanket, dressed quickly, and made her way to the command tent. Even though she’d hurried, she saw as she entered that she wasn’t the first to arrive. She frowned slightly as she caught sight of Sergeant James Cook and Corporal Bob Parker already talking with Moorefield; she’d hoped to talk privately with him. There was obviously a mission or crisis to deal with. So, no moonlight walk, then.

  Damn it.

  Moorefield’s smile when he saw her, though, alleviated her disappointment a little. It also made her heart flutter.

  “Thanks for coming,” Moorefield said. “We just got immediate tasking, and I need your help.”

  Even better than a moonlight walk. “What is happening?” she asked, nodding to Cook and Parker.

  “You know the interface craft and pilots that arrived yesterday?”

  She nodded. “I met one of the pilots and one of the ground team. They asked about riding whinnies.”

  Moorefield nodded. “They’re here to blow up the transmitter the J’Stull are building. There are two ground guys who are here to designate the targets so the aviators can drop bombs on them.”

  “Designate them? Like put a big orange piece of material with a bullseye on the targets? One that reads, ‘Drop here?’” She smiled.

  “Not really,” Moorefield said, and she could see he was determined to keep the conversation absolutely serious. Too important for even a small joke. That’s a bad sign. She dropped the smile.

  Moorefield nodded, acknowledging the change in her bearing. “There are two men who have lasers. Their job is to point the lasers at the targets. The bombs the aviators are going to drop will see the reflected laser energy and guided down to them, eliminating the targets.”

  Cook’s and Parker’s presence made sense. They led the squad with the best whinnie riders, and, along with her, were the best riders in the camp. Except for Moorefield, himself, who probably couldn’t go because he’d been up all day and was currently on duty.

  “We need to get them to the target?”

  Moorefield nodded. “The two ground guys have both ridden in the past, but they’ve never ridden whinnies, and they need to be able to if we’re going to get them where they need to be in time. I don’t want to send you on this, but you’re the most experienced person I have for teaching people how to ride whinnies, and I need Cook and his men to provide protection for them and get them to the target. If you’re willing, I need you to keep them in their saddles while Cook’s squad gets them to the target.”

  “Very well. When do we leave?”

  “As soon as possible,” Cook said. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and most of it—especially once we get near the target—is pretty forbidding terrain. It’s going to be a hard ride getting there and may be an even harder ride on the way out if we attract the attention of the J’Stull.”

  Aliza nodded. There was no way in hell she’d turn down a chance to make herself useful. Or to turn down Bo, at all, if the truth were known. “I shall gather my gear. Tell them to meet me at the paddock.”

  * * *

  She already had the whinnies saddled when the two privates arrived with Private Ivan Petrov from Cook’s squad. Both of the newcomers had big packs on their backs.

  She nodded to the packs as they carefully set them aside. “Are those the designators?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the bigger one—Dorkhouse—said.

  “They look heavy. Want me to saddle another whinnie to pack them along?”

  “No, ma’am,” the other—Renaldi, she thought—replied. “Bad enough to have to carry it along. It’d be worse if the damn lizard sat on it and broke it or something.”

  “The whinnies are quite smart,” Aliza said. “They’d do a good job with them. Probably better than you’d do if you fell off your whinnie and landed on the box.”

  “All the same, ma’am,” Dork said, “I’d rather keep mine close to me.”

  “Me, too,” Renaldi added.

  “As you wish. Now, I’m going to give you a crash course in riding whinnies—”

  “Can we do it without the crash?” Dork asked.

  He sounds like he means it. She smiled. The man seemed good natured, if a little slow. His partner, while more mentally agile, sounded like an annoying New Yorker she’d had the displeasure of knowing once. “Of course,” she replied when Renaldi rolled his eyes. “This will be the quick, no-crash version. Whinnies are easier to ride than horses, because they’re smarter…”

  * * *

  Aliza stood from fastening the saddle’s belly-straps as Moorefield approached Cook’s squad to see them off. “Good luck,” he said to Cook. He turned to Aliza. “Be careful.”

  She nodded. “I will. I’ll get them there and back, safe and sound.” She smiled. “With Sergeant Cook’s help, of course.”

  Cook nodded. “Ready to go, ma’am?”

  Aliza looked to her two charges. Dork was on Scout, Moorefield’s mount, as it was the
biggest one they had, while Renaldi was on Trigger, a smaller male that had a more golden color. Dork gave her a thumbs-up, while Renaldi nodded. He was less comfortable on whinnie-back and probably didn’t want to let go of the reins. “We are ready,” Aliza said.

  Moorefield stepped up to Scout. “Take care of them, boy,” he said, slapping the whinnie’s shoulder. The whinnie purred.

  “Keep a light on for us,” Cook said, then turned to the formation. “At the canter, forward harch!”

  Moorefield watched Aliza’s back as the squad rode off across the plateau. It was never easy to stay back when you sent men out to do something dangerous, and this time, it was even harder. “Vaya con Dios, Honey,” he muttered quietly.

  * * *

  “Not sure you really want to do that,” a voice said as Bowden gave a tug on the last missile. He turned to find Byrd smiling at him.

  “Strangest preflight I’ve ever done,” Bowden said. “I don’t know how it was with you, but before I ever got to touch a new model of aircraft, there were a bunch of ground school classes, emergency procedures trainers, and simulators out the ass.”

  “I got some ground school, but all that whiz-bang computer shit was long after my time.”

  “Yeah, I guess it would have been.” Bowden smiled and slapped the interface craft. “I barely know anything about the craft. If we have an emergency, the pilot will have to handle it, because I don’t know shit. The oddest thing, though—from my point of view, anyway—is that we never got to touch live ordnance until we knew it inside and out. I barely know what to look for from these weapons, and none of them have the orange ‘Remove Before Flight’ tags.”

  “Yeah,” Byrd commiserated, “I don’t even really want to look at the weapons, because then I see how everything is cobbled together, and I start thinking, ‘There’s no way this shit’s going to work.’ Weapon safety isn’t a big thing with the SpinDogs, which is why I said I’m not sure you really want to tug on the weapons. Fiezel had one of the latches on a Sidewinder fail when he did that, and it came off in his hands.”