Starfist - 13- Wings of Hell
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CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ALSO BY DAVID SHERMAN AND DAN CRAGG
COPYRIGHT
To: PO3 Stuart Goldman, USN
USS New Jersey (BB-62)
RVN, South China Sea, 1968–69
PROLOGUE
The Grand Master sat at state on a raised dais in his hall. Idly, he watched as a diminutive female knelt before the low, lacquered table sitting at his side in convenient reach of his hand. The female poured hot liquid from a delicate pot into a small cup on the table next to a slender vase that held a lone, long-stemmed flower—the only ornament on the table. He continued to watch as she placed the pot on the table on the other side of the vase; then she picked up the small cup and delicately drank it down. Drinking complete, the diminutive female replaced the cup, sat back on her heels, folded her hands on her thighs, and waited as impassively as the four Large Ones who stood to the rear of the Grand Master, swords ready in their hands to protect their lord from attack. Only then did the Grand Master look away from her and raise a languid hand in signal.
In response, a column of diminutive females appeared from a side entrance to the hall, each bearing a pot of steaming liquid, and went in precise order around the hall, kneeling next to small, lacquered tables that sat between the pairs of Great Masters and Over Masters who knelt in ranks before the Grand Master. Each table held two small cups flanking a slender vase with a single, long-stemmed flower. The females poured steaming liquid into the cups, then placed the pots on iron trivets that lay behind the tables on the reed mats that covered the floor. The Great Masters and Over Masters were the senior staff of the Grand Master’s corps, and the commanders of his major combat elements and their seconds.
Once all the Great Masters and Over Masters had been served, the Grand Master returned his attention to the female who had served him. When he detected no sign of distress in her countenance or posture, he nodded. She poured a fresh cup of liquid for the Grand Master. The Grand Master took the cup from her hands when she offered it to him, faced the assembled Great Masters and Over Masters, and raised the cup in salute.
He waited a beat or two for the assembled upper-rank Masters to raise their cups in return, then spoke: “To our coming great victory!” He quaffed the steaming beverage then held out the cup for the female to take and refill. The Grand Master’s voice was rugged and raspy; as with nearly all Masters of the Emperor’s army who attained such high rank, he had not exercised his gills in so long that they had atrophied, allowing air from under his arms, as well as from his lungs, to exit through his larynx, and affect his voice.
When the Grand Master offered his toast, the assembled staff and major combat unit commanders replied in kind and quaffed.
“The Master, Leaders, and Fighters who attacked the Earthman Marines in their own lair did not survive their mission,” the Grand Master rasped. “But they killed or wounded many of the enemy. The survivors will have already sent a report on the encounter to their headquarters. The report will surely tell the Marine commanders that we are here, on this Earthman mud ball, and they will send more Marines for us to fight and kill.” He grinned, exposing pointed incisors. “We shall soon complete plans for the coming fight, and we will rehearse them until both our staffs and our fighting forces execute them flawlessly.
“This time, as never before, we shall defeat the Earthman Marines!”
Finished speaking, the Grand Master extended his hand for the female kneeling near his side to hand him his refilled cup. He raised the cup in another salute and roared, “Victory!”
The hall reverberated with cries of “Victory!” from his staff and senior commanders.
Lieutenant General Pradesh Cumberland, Confederation Army, Deputy Commander of Task Force Aguinaldo, less formally known as “the Skink Force,” stood in the doorway of General Anders Aguinaldo, late Commandant of the Confederation Marine Corps, and cleared his throat.
Without looking up from his console, Aguinaldo said, “Come on in, Pradesh.”
Cumberland did so, shaking his head, wondering not for the first time how the Marine knew he was at the door. Or am I the only one who clears his throat instead of knocking? He closed the door behind himself.
“I’ve been going over the most recent personnel reports,” Aguinaldo said as he finally looked up and waved his deputy to take a seat. He smiled wryly. “Ever since I sent that war warning to the commanders of Confederation forces, I’ve been inundated with requests—make that demands—from planetary presidents, prime ministers, dictators, and oligarchs, that I immediately return to their control the forces they committed to the Skink Force, to defend their home worlds.” He snorted. “I even have demands from the senators from each of those worlds insisting that the units be returned.”
“But we—you—can’t do that!” Cumberland said.
“And I won’t,” Aguinaldo agreed. “We’ll need every one of those units by the time this is over. Besides, several of them are already in transit to Haulover.” He shook his head. “So much for the distribution limits I put on that message.”
“You knew the limits would be ignored.”
“I did, indeed.” He leveled a look at his deputy. “I think my war warning woke them up as much as the President’s public announcement of the Skinks’ existence.”
“A wake-up call they likely needed.”
“So long as it doesn’t cause a panic. I’m letting the President deal with that.” Aguinaldo turned his console around so Cumberland could see it. “A fresh communication from what I’ve dubbed ‘Confederation Forces Haulover (Provisional).’”
Cumberland quickly read the message:
TO: CG, TF AGUINALDO, ARSENAULT
FROM: BHIMBETKA, ALADDIN, LTCMDR, CPT. CNSS BROWARD COUNTY
RE: UPDATE OF ENEMY ORDER OF BATTLE, HAULOVER
SIR:
FOLLOWING DETAILED ANALYSIS OF STRING-OF-PEARLS MAPPING OF HUMAN WORLD HAULOVER, DETERMINATION HAS BEEN MADE THAT ENEMY FORCE IS PROBABLE 50,000. PERHAPS NOT ALL ARE COMBATANT. MAP WITH LOCATIONS OF SIGHTINGS OF ENEMY, INCLUDING ESTIMATED TYPES OF UNITS AND NUMBERS, IS ATTACHED.
RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED,
BHIMBETKA, BROWARD COUNTY
“A probable force of fifty thousand,” Cumberland murmured.
“Which number probably doesn’t include support troops. So I’m staying with my earlier estimate of one hundred thousand enemy.”
“It could be more.”
“Indeed it could. That’s why I’m standing up the XXX Corps in addition to the XVIII Corps. If we need them, they’ll be ready to go on a few days’ notice.”
Cumberland tipped his head back for a moment, thinking. He nodded sharply. “Andy, there was an American general in the late twentieth century, name of Powell. He established what came to be called ‘the Powell Doctrine.’ It essentially said that you should never enter a war unless you have overwhelming force on your side.”
Aguinaldo mentally rifled through his memories and quickly found the Powell Doctrine. “And it only held for a few years before someone with more faith in machines than in men scrap-heaped it.” He thought for another moment, then added, “As I recall it, Powell won his war against a huge army in a matter of days.”
“And the man who didn’t want to use enough soldiers made a war that threw his country and a large part of the rest of the world into a turmoil that lasted far too many years.”
“Your point is taken, Pradesh. You’re a good thinker; that’s why you’re my deputy. I will issue orders for XXX Corps to deploy to Haulover as soon as shipping is available for it.”
“Overwhelming force, sir?”
“Overwhelming force.”
(The incidents referred to above are detailed in Starfist: Force Recon: Recoil.)
CHAPTER ONE
Captain Lew Conorado, the commander of Company L of the infantry battalion of Thirty-fourth Fleet Initial Strike Team, settled into the chair behind the desk in his office and sighed. A thought crossed his mind: his wife, Marta. He shrugged it off. Let him finish the little bit of work he still had to do, then he could think of Marta. Better, he could go home to her.
He was at his desk, in his office. It felt like a long time since he’d last been there. And it had been a long time, as deployments go. In a normal forty-year career, a Marine might have a couple of dozen deployments, many involving combat. But only one or two of them would be actual wars. He thought back to the war on Diamunde, which had been his first war. It hadn’t lasted as long as the later war on Kingdom, his second war. And now he was back from his third war, which was even longer than the one on Kingdom.
Three wars in less than ten years. He couldn’t help but think that if Thirty-fourth Fleet Initial Strike Team hadn’t been quarantined, he would have long since been transferred to a different posting and wouldn’t have gone to either Kingdom or Ravenette. Maybe. Maybe there would have been other wars he would have gone to. He was sure there had to have been other operations involving Marines and army units acting together during that time, operations that counted as wars. He might have lost as many of his Marines on those operations as he had on the ones he’d actually fought in.
That’s what was bothering him, what made sitting at his desk in his office in Marine Corps Base, Camp Major Pete Ellis, on Thorsfinni’s World, feel so good. For the foreseeable future, he wasn’t going to lose any more Marines.
He shook himself, because that kind of thinking could turn morbid in a hurry. It was better to think of what he still had to do before he could leave his office to go home, to where Marta waited for him, and begin the five days’ liberty on which he’d already released his Marines.
The Marines had been debriefed on the voyage home from Ravenette, and Brigadier Sturgeon had already had his end-of-mission commanders’ call, at which the FIST commander informed his unit commanders that the Confederation Ministry of Defense was striking a medal for the just-completed mission against the rebellious Coalition—which was only to be expected. He smiled to himself; Ensign Charlie Bass hadn’t been informed yet, but the brigadier had told Conorado privately that at the awards ceremony following the liberty, Bass was going to be promoted to lieutenant. Nothing morbid in that thought. And Conorado liked the idea of not notifying Bass in advance.
The only thing he saw that couldn’t wait a few days was Lance Corporal Francisco Ymenez, who had come in from Whiskey Company as a replacement when Lance Corporal MacIlargie was wounded on Ravenette and was still with the platoon as a temporary replacement. Ymenez wanted to stay with the platoon when MacIlargie returned to duty, and Bass wanted to keep him. But when MacIlargie and Lance Corporal Longfellow, the two men still recovering from wounds, returned there wouldn’t be any open slots in the platoon for Ymenez to fill. It would be unconscionable for Conorado to leave the lance corporal dangling. He looked at the company roster.
And found he couldn’t think straight. Marta was too much on his mind to allow him cogent thought. Anyway, personnel shuffling was the first sergeant’s job. Figuring out how to shuffle people to allow Bass to keep Ymenez could wait a few days.
On the off chance that Ymenez was still on base, Conorado checked the location of his men. Ymenez was still in the barracks, almost the only one who hadn’t yet taken off on liberty. Conorado told Corporal Palmer, the company chief clerk, who also hadn’t yet left on liberty, to summon Ymenez.
Ymenez must have run from third platoon’s squadbay, because less than a minute later Palmer announced him.
“Enter,” Conorado commanded.
“Sir, Lance Corporal Ymenez reporting as ordered!” Ymenez said, as he stepped up to Conorado’s desk and stood at rigid attention.
“At ease, Lance Corporal.”
Ymenez shifted to parade rest.
“Ensign Bass tells me you want to stay in his platoon, that you’d rather not go back to Whiskey Company. Is that so?”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to stay with third platoon, sir.”
“Why?”
“Sir? B-because third platoon is a damn fine platoon. And Ensign Bass is just about the best officer I’ve ever served under. Sir.”
Conorado nodded. “Ensign Bass thinks you’re an asset to the platoon. No promises, but I’ll see what I can do. If possible, you’ll get your wish. Now, Lance Corporal, liberty call has been sounded. Why are you still in the barracks?” He gave Ymenez a quick once-over. “Your garrison utilities are clean and your insignia is on right, head for Bronnys and enjoy yourself with the rest of the platoon.” And let me get home to Marta.
A grin splashed across Ymenez’s face as he snapped back to attention. “Aye aye, sir! Thank you, sir!” He executed a sharp about-face and marched out of the company commander’s office. He was running by the time he hit the corridor outside the company office.
“Palmer, what are you still doing here?” Conorado demanded, leaving his office.
“Waiting to make sure there’s nothing I have to do before I head for liberty, sir.”
“Everything’s done. Now get out of here so I can leave; my wife is waiting for me.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Palmer grinned. He locked his comp and preceded Conorado out of the office.
Most of the enlisted men of Company L, like the Marines of the rest of Thirty-fourth FIST, had headed just outside Camp Ellis’s main gate, to Bronnoysund, for their five-day liberty. Most of the Marines of third platoon headed straight for Big Barb’s, the combination ship’s chandlery, hotel, bar, and bordello where every one of them could be found at one hour or another on any given day (or night) of shore liberty.
They were, as usual, greeted with boisterous enthusiasm when they entered Big Barb’s. And a lot of joyful squeals from Big Barb’s girls.
“Te-em!” The synchronized squeal wasn’t the first, but it certainly cut through the others. Two lovely young women, one as dark as the other was fair, burst through the others crowding the Marines and hurtled onto Sergeant Tim Kerr, the second squad leader.
Unlike the last time Thirty-fourth FIST had returned from a deployment, when Frida and Gotta had almost knocked him off his feet with their greeting, Kerr was ready for them and braced himself for the onslaught.
Other young women threw themselves at the Marines:
The one called Erika cried, “Raoul!” and jumped off the lap of the farmer she’d been sweet-talking and encouraging to drink up; she ran to Corporal Raoul Pasquin, abandoning her farmer.
Carlala, long-haired and almost painfully thin, was coming down the stairs from the private rooms when the Marines came through the door. She nearly jumped over the banister in her haste to reach
Corporal Joe Dean.
Corporal Dornhofer was blindsided when a voluptuous young woman named Klauda darted up behind and jumped on his back without crying out his name.
Corporal Chan saw statuesque Sigfreid barreling through the room, and ran to meet her head-on, acting on the theory that if he had enough momentum going when they collided, she wouldn’t knock him to the floor. Considering how much bigger she was than he, that could be a serious issue.
Svelte Hildegard hadn’t paired off with any particular one of the Marines in the past. She sashayed into the crowd and pressed herself against Lance Corporal Isadore Godenov. “Come here often?” she purred into his ear, then laughed so hard she almost doubled over. When she was able to stand straight, she managed so say, “That’s such a dumb line, but I can’t help it; I’ve wanted to say it for so long.” Then she was laughing hard again. When she regained control she asked, “Seriously, Izzy, would you like some companionship?” Godenov looked at Hildegard’s still-red face with tears on her cheeks. He was straining to hold back his own laughter, so he merely nodded. She took his hand and led him to a large table where some of the other third platoon Marines were already congregating with their girls.
Sergeant Ratliff, first squad leader, turned with a sharp retort on his tongue when a voice said into his ear, “Buy a girl a drink, sailor?” He swallowed the retort; it was Kona. Kona wasn’t one of Big Barb’s girls, she was a young widow from the village of Hryggurandlit who had come to the big party thrown for the Marines on their return from the war on Kingdom. She hadn’t gone to the party looking to do anything in particular, and certainly she hadn’t been looking for a man. But during the course of events she had found herself paired off with Sergeant Lupo Ratliff. And subsequently found that she actually liked him. She said, “I heard the FIST was back. Thought I’d like to see you again.” She cocked her head. “And I hoped you’d like to see me again.”