McCade on the Run (Sam McCade Omnibus)

by William C. Dietz

  “My name’s Harrington. You folks look like you could use a lift. Climb aboard, and let’s get the hell out of here. We can expect a flight of T-40 fighters in about twelve minutes. Their base is a couple hundred miles away so it’s taking them a while to get here.”

  McCade knew that it could still be some sort of an elaborate trick, but didn’t think it was, and decided to take the chance. “All right, everybody . . . you heard the man...let’s get aboard!”

  Phil entered first, his ugly-looking submachine gun at the ready, making sure the bus was empty. It was, and he waved the rest of them forward.

  Once the team was aboard, Harrington wasted little time in closing the door and accelerating away. McCade noticed the older man was wearing a headset, and from the speed with which they were traveling, McCade suspected that he had a means of tracking the T-40s. If so, they were coming on strong.

  The bus swerved to avoid a rock and threw McCade against hard metal. He smiled. This was silly. Not only was Nigel Harrington a good deal different from the helpless old man that he’d imagined, the industrialist also showed every sign of rescuing his rescuers, and doing so with a good deal of panache.

  Zephyr was clean and crisp up ahead, safe behind a carefully maintained wall, all curves and rounded corners. Then McCade saw the iron gate, the pillbox located next to it, and the troops spilling out of a government truck.

  Harrington’s voice boomed over the PA system. “They’re on to me, so hang on, folks, we’re gonna dent some government property!”

  An automatic weapon opened up from the pillbox, but the gunner hadn’t fired at a real target before, and put all of his slugs where the bus had been instead of where it was headed.

  An officer waved her arms, mouthed some sort of order, and dived out of the way as Harrington accelerated toward the gate. There was a crash as the bus hit, a snow storm of shattered safety glass, and the stutter of hand-held weapons. McCade sensed rather than saw government troopers falling away as members of his team fired out through the windows.

  Up front Harrington yelled, “Yahooo!” and put his foot down. The bus fishtailed around a corner, sideswiped a lamppost, and screeched its way up a well-kept boulevard.

  Just then three barely glimpsed somethings roared overhead, shaking the bus with their combined slipstreams.

  “That’s the T-40s,” Harrington yelled happily, “they can’t fire on us without hosing the entire neighborhood! Most of my neighbors are government officials. Silly bastards!”

  McCade made eye contact with Phil a few rows back and on the other side of the aisle. The variant shook his head in amazement and smiled. It was easy to see why Harrington Industries had been so successful.

  The aircraft made one more pass during the time it took for the bus to wind its way down some residential streets and roar toward a pair of massive gates. They opened like magic and closed behind the bus as it bounced inside and slid to a screeching halt.

  McCade was impressed with what he could see through the broken windshield. In the foreground were carefully planned rock gardens, thoughtfully interspersed with desert plants, and crisscrossed by well-swept walkways.

  Farther back was the mansion itself, a huge rambling structure, all of which was blindingly white.

  Harrington tried to open the vehicle’s door and found it wouldn’t budge. Not too surprising, since it had sustained a good deal of damage during the crash and was badly twisted.

  A heavily armed security guard, dressed in a paramilitary uniform with a Harrington Industries logo stitched to his breast pocket, managed to pry the door open with a crowbar.

  They unloaded Banks first, with the rest of the team tumbling out after that, and McCade last. Nigel Harrington was there to greet him. There was a smile on the older man’s face. His grip was dry and firm.

  “Captain Blake, I presume. Welcome to my home. I received word of your arrival a few hours ago.”

  Harrington gestured toward a tall spindly tower that soared up from the corner of the mansion. “Margaret had that built, God bless her soul. Used to sit on the observation deck and paint. I saw the whole battle from up there. Nasty business that. Could’ve been worse though. The night patrols were in and the day patrols were getting ready to go out. Idiots don’t have enough brains to overlap their patrols. Be surprised if we don’t whip the whole government in a week.”

  McCade thought Harrington’s projection was more than a little optimistic but didn’t say so. “We sure appreciate your help, sir, we owe you one.”

  Harrington waved the comment away with a smile.“Not for very long.I’ll be owing you pretty soon.”

  Harrington looked around at his mansion, the gardens, and the pristine grounds. “I wonder how much of this will still be standing two days from now.”

  Three fighters flashed by overhead, their wings almost touching, the roar of their engines nearly drowning Harrington’s last words.

  McCade watched the fighters go. Afterburners glowed red as they stood on the tails and screamed toward the sky. He met Harrington’s eyes. “That’s hard to say, sir, but one thing’s for sure, now’s the time to dig in.”

  Twenty-Two

  At exactly 0300 Mustapha Pong gave an order and death fell toward the planet Drang. It came in the form of drop modules, assault boats, bombs, missiles, and beams of pure energy.

  And as Pong struck, so did the combine, quickly securing generous landing zones for the invading forces.

  But the government forces were tough and, thanks to good intelligence, well prepared for the attack. They’d known since Salazar that war was inevitable, and that Pong would side with the combine. So they gave ground, but did so grudgingly. Every LZ was contested, every target defended, and every victory paid for in blood.

  The night was full of fire. Assault boats blossomed into flowers of flame, aerospace fighters exploded, and cities glowed reddish orange. Death was everywhere.

  As in most wars Drang’s civilians came in for a large share of the suffering. There was no way to protect them against a damaged assault boat cart-wheeling out of the sky, a pod of misdirected bombs, or a heat-seeking missile that couldn’t tell the difference between a residential power grid and a military one.

  But thanks to a common need to win popular support, both the government and the combine avoided civilian target as much as possible.

  And because both sides wanted to live on the planet when the war was over, they refused to use nuclear weapons. Of course the fact that nuclear war was grounds for intervention by the Emperor might have had an impact on their thinking as well. Neither group wanted to live on a planet governed by Imperial Marines.

  So, some five hours after the attack had begun, Pong was quite satisfied with the way things had gone. His forces had suffered casualties, but nothing unexpected, and thanks to the excellent leadership provided by Colonel Surillo, 81.7 percent of the primary objectives had been taken. A high score indeed.

  Pong had watched the first hours of the battle from orbit with 47,721 at his side. A special booth made of one-way glass had been set up inside the flagship’s situation room to protect the alien’s identity.

  Just one leak, one whisper of a previously uncontacted race, and Imperial intelligence would be all over the place. That would be inconvenient, and potentially disastrous as well, since Pong’s plan depended on surprise.

  Forewarned is forearmed, and if the Empire knew about the 56,827, there was a fairly good chance that they could win the ensuing war. Regardless of what the aliens believed, Pong knew his fellow humans were a tough lot and capable of amazing stubbornness. Not only that, they were also a good deal more technologically sophisticated then the 56,827, and mean as hell when threatened.

  No, Pong thought to himself, I mustn’t let that happen. Victory depends on a surprise attack by an absolutely ruthless race using weapons the Empire hasn’t seen before. It would start when the moon-sized alien ship dropped out of hyperspace into near Earth orbit and cut loose
with everything it had. A few hours later man’s ancestral home would become little more than charred rock.

  The Emperor would be killed along with his entire family, the seat of Imperial government entirely eradicated, and the home fleet destroyed. The rest of the Empire would burst like an overripe fava fruit, split into warring factions, and finish the process Pong had started.

  And then, with some key victories over the Il Ronn, and a few other space-faring races, a new order would be born. A new order conceived by him.

  “By us,” the Melcetian put in waspishly.

  “Ofcourse,” Pong responded impatiently. “That goes without saying.”

  “It better,” the mind slug replied, but thought better of it, and slipped Pong some soothing chemicals.

  Completely unaware of Pong’s thoughts, or his interchange with the Melcetian, 47,721 shifted in his seat. It was of 56,827 manufacture and served to cradle the alien’s backward curving midsection. Both of its outward bulging eyes were swiveled forward in order to follow the action.

  The privacy booth included three sophisticated holo tanks, twelve different video monitors, and a sophisticated com set.

  Using video supplied by hundreds of spaceships, assault boats, drop modules, combat vehicles, and individual troops, a rather sophisticated computer had woven it all together to provide them with a live blow-by-blow account of the battle.

  So skillful was the computer’s manipulation of incoming information that it took on the quality of a holo drama, complete with ongoing characters and running subplots.

  More than once Pong and 47,721 were watching when a particular video source disappeared from the screen and never returned. Often there was natural sound, explosions, or screams followed by silence.

  Each time Pong was conscious of the fact that real men and women had just died, yet because it was little different from watching a well-executed holo drama, it didn’t seem to mean much.

  Not to Pong anyway, although 47,721 grew somewhat agitated during the scenes of personal combat, and his toe claws had left scratches in the surface of the durasteel deck.

  All around the booth there was the quiet murmur of com traffic, an occasional burst of static, and the gentle hiss of air-conditioning. All of it comfortably distant from the battle that raged below.

  But not for long. In a few minutes Pong would depart for the surface where he would take personal command of his troops and prove his worthiness to the 56,827. Silly but necessary. He turned to 47,721.

  “So, we are well on the way to victory. In a few weeks, a month at the most, our work will be done. In the meantime I must join my troops.”

  A long rope of saliva drooped out of the alien’s mouth parts and plopped to the deck. “Yes, numberless one. You have done well. I shall remain here for a while and monitor the battle before returning to my ship.”

  Pong delivered a small bow of acknowledgment. He eyed the hood and cape arrangement thrown over the back of 47,721’s chair. It would protect the alien’s identity between the situation room and the shuttle. The crew was curious, but so what. With the exception of Molly, none of them had seen anything more than the outside of the alien’s spaceship. And for all they knew, it was an asteroid transformed into an elaborate habitat and crewed by Lakorian swamp dancers.

  Pong cleared his throat. “Do you need anything before I leave?”

  The alien was quiet for a moment, as if giving the question his full and undivided attention. “Yes, as you know, our success stems in part from the care with which we prepare for battle.”

  Sure,Pong thought to himself. If you never take chances you never lose.

  Out loud Pong said, “And quite right too.”

  “So,” the alien continued, “I will take the juveniles along with me as I return.”

  The 56,827 had made their desire for some human children known early on, and Pong had saved some from the slave markets of Lakor specifically for that purpose. And up till now he’d never dared to ask why.

  But flushed with the successful attack on Drang, and more confident of his position, Pong decided to indulge his curiosity.

  “Ofcourse. I will have the children prepared. May I ask what you’ll do with them?”

  The alien’s reply was matter-of-fact. “Of course. Some of our more sophisticated weapons kill by disrupting the enemy’s nervous system. However, due to the fact that neural systems vary from species to species, it is necessary to fine-tune our weapons prior to battle. Some of the juveniles will be used for that purpose. Others will provide an interesting variation to our rather monotonous shipboard diet.”

  Pong shuddered. Although well aware of the 56,827’s preference for dinner on the hoof, it was something he’d tried to ignore. On one occasion they’d invited him for dinner and it had taken weeks to get over it.

  Pong thought of the slave girls who’d been captured with Molly. What a horrible way to die. Still, a deal’s a deal. He would give the necessary orders.

  As for Molly, well, she was safe. Remembering her fear of 47,721, Pong had ordered Molly to remain in his cabin while the alien was aboard, and during his trip dirtside as well. Much as he enjoyed Molly’s company, Pong knew it would be dangerous on Drang, and wanted to protect her. He stood to go.

  “The juveniles will be ready, 47,721. May your hunts go well.”

  “And yours,” the alien replied politely, before returning his attention to the video screens. A small city was on fire and he didn’t want to miss it.

  Twenty-Three

  “Incoming!” The voice was an unidentifiable croak in McCade’s ear.

  He dived behind the wreckage of a once-graceful water fountain. Like everything else in and around Nigel Harrington’s home, it had been reduced to little more than twisted metal and shattered masonry. The mortar shells made a loud cracking sound as they marched across the driveway and rock garden leaving large craters behind. The barrage ended as suddenly as it began.

  “Here they come!” This time McCade recognized the voice as belonging to Phil. He rolled over and poked the brand-new assault rifle up and over a chunk of broken duracrete. There was no shortage of weapons and ammunition thanks to Nigel Harrington’s underground arsenal.

  But what good are weapons if you don’t have troops to fire them? Only twelve members of McCade’s team were still alive. They, plus the five surviving members of Harrington’s security force, were all that stood between the industrialist and the government troops that were trying to capture or kill him.

  The air was full of dust and smoke. A couple of dozen dimly seen figures sprinted through the wreckage of the main gate. Their armor was covered with powdery white dust. It puffed away as they ran.

  Auto throwers stuttered, energy weapons burped, and a grenade went off as the government troops came straight at him.

  McCade fired in ammo-conserving three-round bursts, methodically working his way from left to right, watching the soldiers jerk and fall. He cursed them for coming, for running at him through the smoke, willing them to turn and flee.

  But they kept on coming, their bullets dancing through the rubble around him, screaming incoherent war cries.

  The deliberate thump, thump, thump of a heavy machine gun came from McCade’s right, and he watched as geysers of dirt exploded upward next to the troops and then among them.

  Bodies were thrown backward, loose weapons flew through the air, and the thump, thump, thump continued. Continued, and stopped, when there was nothing left to kill.

  McCade dropped down and rolled over onto his back. The sky was partially obscured by drifting smoke. Then a momentary breeze blew it away and he saw contrails crisscrossing the sky. The battle for Drang was well under way.

  McCade wondered how the battle was going, who was winning, and who was dying.

  He thumbed the magazine release and fumbled for another. The bounty hunter didn’t even look as he shoved it home. The magazine made a loud click followed by a clack as the bolt slid forward.

&
nbsp; “Fighters! South side, six o’clock low!”

  McCade looked to his left and swore. What was this? Their seventh sortie that day? Their eighth? He supposed it didn’t matter much. About five or six hours after the team arrived the government had evacuated the rest of the neighborhood and called for an air strike. The planes had been strafing and bombing the hell out of the place ever since. The entire neighborhood had been leveled.

  McCade rolled to his knees, scrambled to his feet, and sprinted for a bolt hole. It had been a basement window once, but it was no more than a hole now, one of the many passageways they maintained in and out of Harrington’s underground shelter. All around the mansion others were doing the same thing. They didn’t need orders. The planes came and you hid. It was as simple as that.

  McCade heard the roar of the approaching planes and the growl of their mini-guns. The black hole was just ahead. He dived through it and landed on the mattress placed there for that purpose.

  The world outside was suddenly transformed into a hell of exploding rockets, bursting bomblets, and flying lead. Wave after wave of death flowed across the land churning the rubble and sending up great clouds of smoke and dust. The noise was almost deafening.

  McCade put his hands over his ears just as the voice came through his tiny receiver.“Blake...Harrington here. They won’t attack as long as the planes are here. Come on down for a minute.”

  McCade got to his feet and staggered out of the small storage room and into a richly paneled hallway. He followed that for thirty feet or so and came to a heavily armored door.

  McCade turned his face so the security camera could get a good look at him and was rewarded with a loud click. He pulled on the door and it came open.

  A wide set of stairs led downward. McCade pulled the door closed and made his way down the stairs. Cool air rose to meet him, along with the smell of fresh coffee and the odor of cooking.

  Built to protect the Harrington family from everything up to and including nuclear war, the shelter was much more than the name would imply.