Powered with its own fusion plant, and stocked with five years’ worth of supplies, it included all the basic necessities and then some.
Harrington’s sentient servants and house bots had retreated underground along with him. So, as McCade entered the large sitting room, everything was sparkling clean and a maid was in the process of serving coffee. The thick rugs, modernistic furniture, and expensive art all gave the impression of relaxed luxury.
One entire wall, the one that almost screamed for a window, was given over to a huge vid screen. It was filled with a shot of dramatic-looking boulders, some stunted greenery, and a crystal-clear pool of water.
Like the view from a picture window it was absolutely static, except for small details like an eight-legged reptile scampering over the surface of a sun-warmed rock, and a bird skimming the surface of the water in search of insects.
McCade assumed the shot was live, piped in from somewhere out in the desert.
Harrington wore light body armor, still dusty from a stint on the surface a half hour before, and marked here and there with impacts from flying debris. The industrialist was a damned good shot and had done his share of the fighting and then some. How old was he anyway? Sixty? Seventy? Whatever the industrialist’s age he was tough as hell. Harrington gestured toward a comfortable chair.
“Excellent work up there, Captain Blake. Have a seat. Nancy, coffee and cigars for my guest.”
A middle-aged woman who looked more like an executive secretary than a maid nodded pleasantly and went to work. Within moments McCade had a humidor full of expensive cigars at his elbow and a coffee cup in his hand. It made an unbelievable contrast with the surface. McCade took a sip of coffee, it burned his tongue.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” It felt good to sit down and rest, but McCade couldn’t leave his team for very long.
Harrington touched a remote. The desert scene disappeared from the huge vid screen and was replaced by a wide shot of the Harrington compound. A line of explosions marched through the debris as a plane roared by overhead. Harrington turned the sound down.
“No need to worry, Captain. Most of my vid pickups have been destroyed, but as you can see, I still have one or two left. They’re still at it, and as long as they are, your team is safe.”
McCade nodded and lit a cigar.
The older man waited until the cigar was drawing satisfactorily and smiled. “I used to enjoy them but was forced to quit. Even with anticancer shots and all that other medical hocus-pocus old age eventually has its way.”
Harrington waved a hand. “But enough of that. I have good news. The initial battle is winding down. Your forces have landed and in most cases linked up with the combine. Within an hour, two at most, Zephyr will be in friendly hands.”
It was good news. McCade knew he should be happy but wasn’t. Half his team were dead, and the outcome of the war didn’t matter to him. What mattered was a little girl, and a woman on another planet. He forced a smile.
“I’m glad to hear it, sir. The truth is I’m not sure we could’ve held for another day.”
Harrington nodded. “No, I think not.”
McCade grabbed a handful of cigars, stuck them in a breast pocket, and got to his feet. “Thanks for the news, sir. I’ll go topside and tell the team.”
Harrington nodded and watched him leave. A tough-looking man, a soldier from all appearances, but something more as well. Something more complicated than a hired killer. But what? Just one of the many questions he’d never get an answer to.
It was actually more like five hours before a flight of the combine’s fighters swept in to control the sky and soften up the government’s ground forces, and two hours after that when a flight of choppers landed and disgorged two companies of Pong’s best infantry.
First they surrounded what was left of the Harrington mansion, then they swept through the town of Zephyr and secured that as well.
McCade was sitting on a chunk of garden wall smoking one of Harrington’s cigars when Major Davison found him. Although it was clear from the condition of his armor the other officer had been in or near the fighting, he looked disgustingly fresh.
“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you! Nice job, Blake, damned nice. So nice that the old man wants to shake your hand. Fred’s too.”
Frederick Lambert was the name Phil had taken.
McCade raised an eyebrow. “The who?”
“The old man, the general, Mustapha Pong himself.”
McCade’s heart beat a little bit faster. Finally! A chance to meet Mustapha Pong! Maybe he’d know Molly’s whereabouts, and even if he didn’t, there was a score to settle. A big score.
McCade stood up and flicked the cigar butt away. “The old man. Yes, sir. Ready when you are, sir.”
The wounded had been flown out minutes after the combine swept in, but McCade found the others and thanked them one by one. Martino, Abu Rami, Kirchoff, and a few others were completely untouched. Then, with Phil at his side, McCade climbed aboard the waiting chopper and watched Zephyr shrink below him.
Then, stretching out on a pile of cargo nets, McCade went to sleep. Davison shook him awake two hours later.
“Rise ’n’ shine, Blake. This is brigade headquarters. Before we came it was a nice little hell hole called Foley’s Folly, and don’t ask, because I don’t know why they called it that.”
McCade yawned, stretched, and sat up. Over on the other side of the chopper Phil did the same.
Without the breeze blowing back through the open hatch it was hot, damned hot, and McCade’s mouth was dry. Not only that, his neck hurt from sleeping on the cargo nets, and he smelled like rancid vat slime.
Davison grinned. “Well, Blake, I hope you feel better than you look, cause you look like hell.”
McCade got to his feet. He squinted toward the hatch. The sun was high in the sky and the glare off the desert was incredible. “Thanks for the pep talk, sir, I feel better now.”
Davison laughed and waved them toward the hatch. “Come on, Captain, Sergeant, let’s get you cleaned up. We can’t parade you in front of the general looking like that.”
The sun fell on them like a hammer as they stepped down onto the fused sand. Engines roared all around them, as insect-like choppers took off and landed, their rotors blowing sand sideways forcing McCade to turn his head.
Once off the landing pad Davison ushered them into an open combat car. The vinyl seats were hot as hell. Phil looked terribly uncomfortable, panting heavily, his fur matted with sweat.
A private sat behind pintle-mounted twin-fifties, looking bored and doing her nails. She didn’t even glance their way. The driver was a cheerful-looking corporal. He had bright brown eyes, black skin, and a gold earring in his right ear.
“Welcome aboard, sirs. Where to?”
“The O club and step on it,” Davison replied.
McCade was thrown backward as the car spun away, spraying a nearby work party with sand and reinforcing all the negative images they already had regarding officers.
The corporal liked to drive combat cars, and saw each errand as an opportunity to hone his skills. As a result the trip from the helicopter pad to the O club was transformed into a high-speed sprint through an imaginary combat situation, with piles of camo-netted cargo modules standing in for tanks, and rows of inflatable tents representing troop carriers. This made the trip fast but somewhat terrifying as well. McCade was thankful when the car skidded to a stop in front of a large tent. A steady stream of officers was coming and going through the front entrance.
Davison thanked the corporal, turned his face away to avoid the inevitable spray of sand, and waited for the combat car to clear the area. He turned to Phil.
“Here . . . pin these tabs to your armor. I put you in for lieutenant and we’ll assume it’s been approved. Can’t have sergeants in the O club...might contaminate the beer or something.”
Phil laughed, did as Davison requested, and followed the majo
r inside. It was soothingly dark, redolent of smoke and beer, and filled with the low mumble of conversation. There were thirty or forty folding tables, about half of them filled.
Davison led them to the bar, bought a round of beers, and watched as they chugged them down. Phil chased his with a full pitcher. When it was gone the variant wiped his muzzle with the back of a furry hand, belched, and said, “Thank you, sir, that hit the spot.”
With their thirst quenched, Davison sent them to the rear of the building where they stripped down and entered the male showers. There was no such thing as cold water, but it felt wonderful to stand in a steady stream of tepid water, and let it wash away days’ worth of desert grime.
McCade soaped and rinsed three times before he felt really clean.
Phil, always given to singing in the shower, did so, his prodigious baritone filling the area with sound. At least one officer thought about asking Phil to stop, but caught a glimpse of the variant’s bulk, and decided to let it go. A few minutes later they had the showers to themselves.
Finally, two bars of soap and many gallons later, they emerged much refreshed and ready for the new uniforms that Davison had waiting. Phil’s was an extra large, triple X, and barely fit.
Davison nodded approvingly when they joined him at the bar. “Better . . . much better . . . and just in time too.” The major glanced at his wrist term.
“We’re due to appear in front of the general at 1730. The general’s not much for handing out medals and that sort of thing, but he’s got the combine to consider, and Marsha Harrington is real pleased about the way you took care of her father. So the heroes are about to receive their just due, along with some other fortunates who had the good sense to save a combine factory. We’re off.”
It was a shock stepping out of the air-conditioned O club into the late afternoon heat. Fortunately for them the HQ bunker was a short distance away. It was more than a bunker actually, being a fairly good-sized freighter, which had been landed in a specially prepared ravine and buried under tons of rock and sand. The result was a hardened command post that was nearly invulnerable to attack.
The entrance was inside a small tent some fifty yards from the command post itself. It was heavily guarded. All three were subjected to an identity check and asked to surrender their weapons prior to admission.
Up to this point McCade had been looking forward to a confrontation with Pong, unsure of exactly how things would go, but determined to make something happen. Now, stripped of his weapons and surrounded by Pong’s personal troops, that seemed suicidal. But thanks to the fact that Pong had never seen him before, he could accept the medal and leave. After that he’d get together with Phil and make a new plan.
Somewhat comforted by this analysis McCade turned his attention to following Major Davison through the underground tunnel. The walls were made of fused sand and chem strips lighted the way. The exaggerated zigzag of the tunnel was no accident. Each corner represented a place where defenders could take cover while their attackers were forced into the open. It was very professional.
There was another identity check once they reached the ships’s lock, followed by a pat down, and a trip through a standard metal detector.
Phil’s durasteel teeth and claws set the detector off right away and caused quite a stir. Finally, after much arguing and explaining by Major Davison, they were allowed to pass.
A junior rating led them through the freighter’s interior to a specially modified cargo hold. Half the space was filled with banks of com gear and people, most of whom were milling around a centrally located tac tank. It shimmered and swirled with distant battle.
Folding chairs had been set up in the other half of the hold and most of them were already filled. The occupants looked tired and extremely bored.
“A bunch of ground pounders,” Davison whispered, “you know, the ones who saved the factory.”
McCade nodded and took one of the few empty seats. Phil sat beside him.
Five or ten minutes passed during which nothing seemed to happen. Then a hatch hissed open and a man stepped through. A rather pleasant-looking man with a Melcetian mind slug riding on his shoulder. The alien rippled with reflected light.
McCade felt adrenaline pour into his system. His heart beat like a triphammer.
Mustapha Pong! The man who had stolen his daughter, wounded his wife, and murdered his friends. Where’s Molly? What have you done with her? McCade wanted to scream it, and was half an inch out of his chair when Phil touched his arm.
“Not now, Sam, Not here. We’ll get our chance, but not now.”
The voice was calm, logical, correct. McCade fell back into his chair and looked around. Had anyone noticed? No, not as far as he could tell anyway.
The room had grown quieter, whether from Pong’s presence or actual orders, McCade couldn’t tell. A stern-looking woman in perfect body armor nodded to Pong and turned toward the small audience. She had heavy black eyebrows, a predatory nose, and a stern mouth. The woman cleared her throat.
“Hello, I’m Colonel Mary Surillo. It’s my pleasure to welcome you to brigade HQ. Being mercs, we don’t give out a lot of medals, but when we do they really mean something. Each one of the medals given out today comes with a cash award.”
The ground pounders gave a cheer and Surillo nodded approvingly. “That’s right... the stuff we fight for. Here to present your awards, and to congratulate you on behalf of the combine, is General Mustapha Pong.”
Surillo nodded toward Pong and took a step backward.
Pong produced a smile, stepped forward, and let the mind slug feed him what he needed to know. “Thank you, Colonel, it’s a pleasure to be here. As I give your names please stand up. First I’d like to recognize Major Elroy, Lieutenant Deng, Private Hoskins...”
Pong’s voice became a dull drone as he listed the ground pounders, their sterling service on behalf of the combine, and their various rewards.
McCade watched the pirate’s face, wondering how such evil could lurk behind those banal features, and wishing he could do something about it right then.
McCade felt a nudge from Phil and realized that their turn had come. The ground ponders had taken their seats, and Pong was about to speak.
“And that brings us to our next set of winners. Captain Roland Blake and Second Lieutenant Frederick Lambert, please stand.”
McCade stood, as did Phil, and Pong had just launched into a description of what they’d done when a loud squawk came from the other side of the room.
McCade looked just in time to see Captain Lorina DepSmith step out of the crowd, belly jiggling, and point a pudgy finger in his direction. Her voice cut through the noise like a knife through soft butter. “Roland Blake my foot! That’s Sam McCade!”
Twenty-Four
Molly huddled in one corner of Mustapha Pong’s vast cabin, half asleep, half awake. She was fantasizing about home, reliving a wonderful afternoon when she, Mommy, and Daddy had gone up to Uncle Rico’s summer place for a picnic. Everything was cozy and warm inside the cabin, while outside the snow fell thick and heavy, covering the world with a layer of white frosting.
There had been a big blazing fire, lots of good food, and the pleasant drone of her parents’ voices. There was nothing exciting about the trip, nothing special, just the warm fullness of being cared for and loved.
Molly remembered how it felt to have Daddy throw her into the air, while Mommy cautioned him to be careful and smiled from the other side of the room. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be back there, reliving that moment, feeling strong arms around her.
A tear trickled down Molly’s cheek and she wiped it away as the hatch hissed open. There were loud footsteps as someone walked into the center of the room and stood in the cone of light that bathed Pong’s chair. A knot formed in Molly’s stomach when she saw who it was. Boots! What was she doing here? Molly cowered in the corner and hoped the woman would go away.
Boots laughed, a horrible cackling sound, full
of hate and satisfaction. “So! Hiding in the corner, eh? Get out here!”
Molly did as she was told, wondering what was going on and wishing Pong would appear. He didn’t.
Two quick steps and Boots had her by an ear, pulling Molly along, towing her through the hatch and down the corridor. It hurt, and just to emphasize that fact, Boots gave her ear an extra jerk every once in a while.
Molly bit her lip, determined not to cry, and looked around for help. Crew members passed them in both directions. Where was Pong? Raz? Surely they’d help her. But no one came to her rescue or even looked especially interested. Slaves, even ones favored by Mustapha Pong, were still slaves.
Bit by bit it became clear that they were headed for the launch bay, and sure enough, when Boots came to a halt it was outside robo lock four.
The hangar had been depressurized so that shuttles could come and go freely, but a limited number of accordianlike robo locks allowed direct access to high-priority vessels, and it seemed Molly was destined for one of those.
Aha! Molly felt suddenly better. Pong had sent for her. Boots would put her aboard his shuttle, and that would be that.
But that hope was snatched away when the rest of the girls were herded into the area, all nineteen of them, with Lia leading the way. The older girl had a sneer on her face.
“Well, look who’s here! Little Miss Privileged. What’s the matter, Molly, did Pong get tired of wiping your nose?”
Molly ignored her and did her best to figure out what was going on. It wasn’t just her. They were taking all of the girls off ship. Why?
Boots counted noses. “Well, that should be the lot of them.”
“Yup,” the other crew member agreed, checking his porta comp, “let’s get ’em on board. Chow’s in twenty minutes. We wouldn’t want to be late.”
Boots shoved Molly toward the lock. “Get moving, brat...it seems Pong came to his senses. We’re well rid of you.”
Molly stumbled, caught herself, and stepped into the lock. She felt an emptiness inside. Pong had sent her away. It shouldn’t matter, but it did.
McCade on the Run (Sam McCade Omnibus) Page 36