“Well, let’s find out,” Santana replied, and put in a call for air support. The voice arrived before the fly-form did. “Red Six to Blue Six . . . Did someone find something for us to shoot at? Over.”
“Welcome to the party, Red Six . . . We have a targeting laser on what may or may not be a ground effect vehicle approximately two thousand yards forward of our position. Over.”
“Roger that,” the airborne cyborg answered cheerfully. “Tally ho! Over.”
And with that three heavily armed fly-forms came out of the sun just as a volley of surface-to-air (SAM) missiles flashed up to meet them. A combination of chaff and electronic countermeasures (ECM) proved sufficient to neutralize the threat as one SAM detonated harmlessly and the rest took off in pursuit of phantom targets.
The fly-forms pulled up, dumped multiple sticks of bombs on the target, and accelerated away. Explosions marched along the bottom of the valley, tossed half a dozen limpet-shaped ground effect vehicles up into the air, and left a line of blackened craters in their wake. A mixture of rock, dirt, and scrap metal was still raining down from the sky when the words “Mission Complete” flashed in front of those taking part in the training scenario.
“All right,” the platoon leader said, as he started to remove the leads that connected him to the virtual reality (VR) training system, “good job. The system will provide each of us with personal feedback. Study it and log some solo hours if you scored anything less than 90 percent.
“We’re going to link up with the second squad during the next session, so you might want to review the company’s call signs. Things start to get complicated with six T-2s plus a whole bunch of quads to keep track of. Any questions?”
There weren’t any, so Santana removed the VR helmet and nodded to both Theek and Cho. Like their platoon leader, the other legionnaires were strapped onto blocky constructs that provided the same kind of kinesthetic feedback that riding a real T-2 did.
As for the cyborgs, they had taken part in the exercise from the racks where their brain boxes were temporarily housed, and were now free to use the same system for recreational purposes.
It wasn’t perfect, but the system helped compensate for the fact that there hadn’t been any opportunity for training on Adobe, and Santana was grateful. The platoon leader unhooked himself, followed the other two bio bods out into the hall, and decided to return to the compartment he shared with the ship’s third officer. The court of inquiry was a mere thirteen hours away—and he wanted to be ready.
ABOARD THE MOTHRI SUN
Video blossomed as one of the bio bods inserted Kitamoto’s brain box into the back of a war form’s head and the T-2’s systems came on-line. The onboard computer took what the cyborg could “see” via its eye cams, combined that with data provided by infrared sensors, and sent the result to the technician’s brain.
Like the other cybernetic tech heads, Kitamoto had been through basic training but wasn’t expected to fight. So, because the vast majority of her time was spent in spider forms, the big bulky T-2 felt exceedingly awkward as she backed the machine out of its retaining clamps, managed a poorly executed turn, and marched the body out of the transit container.
The check ride called for her to walk to the far end of the hold and back, run diagnostics on all the onboard systems, and put the T-2 away. The quads were too large for such a stroll, which meant that all the techs could do was start them up, and run a full battery of tests. Not a step listed in the manuals—but something Captain Calvo insisted on.
Kitamoto clumped her way down the corridor between the cargo modules, stopped in front of the bulkhead, and did a clumsy about-face. Meanwhile, all of the navigation, com, and targeting systems tested green. “This unit looks good,” the technician reported via short-range radio. “Put it down as good to go.”
Calvo said, “Good work,” ran her stylus down her hand comp’s touch-sensitive screen, and tapped a serial number. The officer didn’t know Corporal Haaby—but assumed the trooper would be pleased.
ABOARD THE SPIRIT OF NATU
The ship’s wardroom was the largest space available other than one of the ship’s holds, and it was packed with people. There was a loud buzz of conversation as those present discussed Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka, the charges brought against him, and what they knew about the case. Heads turned, and all conversation ceased as Colonel Kobbi brought the ceremonial gavel down with a loud bang.
“Okay, people,” the battalion commander said, “let’s get this thing under way. Let the official record show that a military court of inquiry was held on this date, at this time, aboard the navy vessel Spirit of Natu for the purpose of reviewing charges brought against Gunnery Sergeant Hreemo Kuga-Ka, in order to determine whether there is sufficient evidence to justify court-martial proceedings, or lacking such evidence, whether the charges should be dropped.
“Because this court of inquiry is taking place during a time of war, and Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka does not have benefit of qualified counsel, the findings of this court will be considered provisional and subject to review when conditions allow. Are there any questions? No? Then I will ask Major Matala to read the charges.”
Santana, who was seated in the front row, looked at Kuga-Ka as the XO started to read. The noncom’s face wasn’t just blank, it was professionally blank, as it would be on parade. Owing to the almost paranoid distrust that Hudathans had for each other, never mind other beings, the noncom had been allowed to place the back of his chair against a steel bulkhead. His uniform was impeccable, his posture was upright, and he looked every inch a noncommissioned officer.
“. . . And,” Matala continued, “having removed Corporal Haaby’s brain box from her war form, it is further alleged that said noncom substituted a fake box to try to conceal the abduction.
“Having abused the corporal and other subordinates in the past, and fearful that she might talk, it is further alleged that the goal of the abduction was to murder Corporal Haaby and thereby silence her.”
Matala looked up from his comp. Kobbi nodded and consulted the list in front of him. “The first witness is Corporal Haaby. She is present in the room, but since her war form is not presently available, she and other cyborgs from Alpha company will testify via electronic hookup.”
Like many in the room, Santana turned to look at a life-support cart loaded with five olive drab boxes. Cables and hoses connected each brain box to the equipment on the cart, which was plugged into a jack panel mounted on the bulkhead. A tech sat next to the cart, where she could monitor a bank of readouts.
“Corporal,” Kobbi said, “can you hear the proceedings?”
“Yes sir,” the cyborg said. “and I can see via the camera mounted in the back of the room.”
“Excellent,” Kobbi replied. “You may swear the witness in and proceed with her testimony.”
Kuga-Ka was well aware of the ways in which he had abused not only Haaby, but the other cyberfreaks as well, so he saw very little reason to listen to their whining. Instead, the Hudathan took advantage of the time to consider the cards that remained in his hand and how he could best play them. The first was Captain Gaphy. He could ruin the company commander—and the skeletal slope knew it. But, rather than simply rat him out, Kuga-Ka planned to use the officer one last time.
Beyond that, the Hudathan had his toadies to call upon. Neither had been charged—and both remained at liberty. Lance Corporal Sawicki was a lazy sort, but wonderfully malleable, and a good hand with explosives. Private Knifethrow was a bit more ambitious and could be relied on to take the initiative from time to time.
Both legionnaires were far more devoted to him than the Legion and could be counted upon when the time came. Kobbi interrupted his thoughts. “Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka? Would you like to question the witness?”
The Hudathan realized that the question had been asked before and that his answer had been “no.” He looked defiant. “The box heads are lying, sir. They’re lazy, incompetent, and stupid. This is thei
r way of getting back at me for forcing them to perform their duties.”
Kobbi raised an eyebrow, looked at Captain Gaphy, and back to the Hudathan. The more the jacker heard from Kuga-Ka the more he wondered about all the glowing evaluations that the company commander had submitted. His voice was cold as ice. “Perhaps you misunderstood, Sergeant. I asked if you wanted to question the last witness. If your statement was intended to summarize your defense, please hold it for the end of the proceedings. In the meantime, further use of derogatory language regarding your fellow legionnaires will result in disciplinary action. Is that clear?”
“Sir, yes sir.”
“All right. Major? Who’s next?”
Santana took the necessary oath, delivered a detailed chronology of what had occurred, and was followed by testimony from Fareye and Dietrich.
Dietrich had just completed his statement, and was looking forward to an escape from officer-held territory, when Kobbi pounced on him. “So, Sergeant, you say that Private Fareye directed you to the maintenance shed where Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka was found to be in possession of Corporal Haaby’s brain box. Why were you involved in this matter to begin with?”
It felt hot in the room. Dietrich wanted to wipe the thin sheen of perspiration off his forehead but managed to resist the temptation to do so. “As I stated earlier, sir, Private Fareye and I saw the gunnery sergeant leave Lieutenant Santana’s squat under suspicious circumstances. We were concerned for the lieutenant’s safety.”
Kobbi raised both eyebrows. “Are you and Private Fareye members of Lieutenant Santana’s platoon?”
“No sir.”
“Then why the interest in his welfare?”
“We served with Lieutenant Santana on LaNor, sir.”
Kuga-Ka, who had lapsed into a dull, semilethargic state by that time, took note of the question and sat a little bit straighter.
Santana felt dozens of eyes turn in his direction, swore silently, and waited for the axe to fall. “Yes,” Kobbi continued thoughtfully, “that’s correct. And who submitted your name for promotion from corporal to sergeant?”
Dietrich could see where the questions were headed but was powerless to intervene. “Lieutenant Santana, sir.”
Kuga-Ka blinked, nodded knowingly, and grinned.
Kobbi nodded in agreement. “Based on your relationship with the lieutenant, did you approach him regarding the possibility of being assigned to his platoon?”
Dietrich swallowed. “Yes sir.”
“And what did Lieutenant Santana say?”
“He said that his platoon was full up—but that he would talk to Captain Gaphy about a transfer to Alpha Company.”
“And were you subsequently transferred?”
“Yes sir.”
“Which was when you came under Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka’s authority and started to follow him around.”
Dietrich had never been so miserable. He looked down then up again. “Yes sir.”
Santana felt his spirits slide into an emotional crevasse and was wondering why Kobbi was siding with Kuga-Ka, when the questioning took another turn.
“Did Lieutenant Santana order you to follow the gunnery sergeant?”
“No sir.”
“Did he know what you were doing on his behalf?”
“No sir.”
“So, your efforts were not intended to undermine Gunnery Sergeant’s career, but to protect an officer you had come to trust . . . Is that correct?”
Dietrich felt a sudden surge of relief. “Sir! Yes sir!”
Kuga-Ka, his hopes crushed, lowered his eyes.
“One more thing before you go,” Kobbi said ominously. “According to the statement that you gave, and subsequently signed, you were armed with a carbine when you took the gunnery sergeant into custody. I spoke with your platoon leader, and while the CA-10 had been issued some days before, none of my troops were authorized to have live ammunition at that time. How did you obtain ammo for your weapon—and where is it now?”
When Dietrich smiled, it was the Dietrich of old, the one who never lost his cool. “I didn’t have any ammo, sir. I simply pretended that I did. One of the MPs took a moment to inspect my weapon and will verify that the magazine was empty.”
Rage mixed with a feeling of shame filled Kuga-Ka’s chest. He of all people should have considered the possibility that the weapon was empty but had failed to do so. He stood, shouted, “You slope-headed bastard!” and charged. It took three MPs, one of whom was Hudathan, to bring the noncom under control.
The balance of the hearing went rather quickly. A panel consisting of Colonel Kobbi, Major Matala, and the transport’s commanding officer found that there was sufficient reason to bind Kuga-Ka over for court-martial, and he was sent to the ship’s brig.
Santana felt emotionally drained by the time he stepped out into the passageway. He was just about to return to his quarters when someone grabbed his arm. He turned to find that Colonel Kobbi was standing next to him. The jacker smiled. “So, did I scare the shit out of you?”
Santana nodded soberly. “Sir, yes sir.”
“Good. It’s my opinion that most lieutenants need a laxative from time to time. Now that the material regarding Fareye and Dietrich is on the record, it won’t come back to haunt you later. It’s far better for us to document that stuff than wait and have a review board stacked with legal beagles do it for us.”
Kobbi eyed the junior officer. “It’s pretty clear that the gunny was a very bad apple—so thanks for weeding him out. A bad noncom, especially one in a position like Kuga-Ka’s, can destroy an entire company. A piece of advice though . . . We have a chain of command—try using it sometime.”
That being said Kobbi turned and left. And it was then, as the short stocky officer walked away, that Santana realized something interesting. Even though the jacker had done most of the talking during the court of inquiry, he hadn’t used the word “frigging” once.
ABOARD THE DESTROYER ESCORT, DE-10786, THE JAVELIN
In many respects the atmosphere within the Javelin’s modest control room felt more like that of a well-managed multimedia library than the bridge of a vessel that might find itself fighting for its life within the next fifteen minutes. The command position was located at the center of the semicircular space with the first officer on one side and the navigator on the other. The rest of the bridge crew were seated one level below. All wore space armor minus the helmets racked nearby. The glow generated by their instruments gave their faces a greenish cast as the ship’s pilot, weapons officer, and lead com tech exchanged information via their headsets.
Lieutenant Commander Amy Exton did her best to look professionally impassive as the ship’s crew made final preparations to exit hyperspace, and reenter normal space. The good news was that 98.7 percent of all such transitions were successful. The bad news was that 1.3 percent were not.
All it took was the tiniest of navigational errors, a faulty hyperspace drive, or a random space-time discontinuity, and a ship could drop into the center of a black hole, wind up in an unknown galaxy, or never return to normal space at all. That’s what the experts claimed, but the people who really knew were dead, or probably wished they were.
As a result most space travelers felt a little bit of apprehension every time their ship exited hyperspace, but that sense of tension was greatly heightened when a ship like the thirty-five-year-old Javelin prepared to not only drop hyper, but do so in what might be enemy-occupied space. The Savas system had been cut off for months, which meant it was quite possible that Ramanthian naval units were in the area. The thought made Exton’s mouth feel dry. The Javelin was her first command, and even though the naval officer was proud of the aging ship, she understood the destroyer escort’s considerable limitations. The old lady was slow by modern standards, her shields were subject to intermittent phase problems, and her tiny flight deck boasted only six in-system fighters.
On the other hand, Savas system amounted to an interstellar backwater. So
, given all the space they had to defend, there was very little reason for the bugs to put any resources there. But, Exton cautioned herself, if the area is so insignificant, why drop a battalion of legionnaires on Savas?
Making the situation even worse was the certain knowledge that after the Javelin dropped in-system, two transports loaded with legionnaires would drop hyper about five minutes later. Exton had no idea what the troops were supposed to accomplish on Savas, only that it was her job to ensure that they landed safely and hold the high ground until they were ready to depart. And not just hold it, but “hold it at any cost,” which the naval officer took to mean that the brass were a good deal more concerned about whatever the Legion was up to than the fate of her ship and its crew.
But all of those thoughts were forced aside as Exton watched the final seconds melt away, tightened her grip on the seat’s armrests, and waited for the telltale lurch at the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, previously dark screens came to life, the Javelin’s NAVCOMP reported a successful transition, and was almost immediately subsumed by the Command and Control (C&C) computer.
“Three targets have been acquired, indexed according to standard threat protocols, and tagged with firing priorities. Target one is a 96.7 percent match with a Ramanthian Slith class destroyer. Targets two and three are an 87.3 percent match with Ramanthian Chak class patrol vessels. All targets are accelerating to intercept. Estimated time to contact at extreme range is four minutes twenty-two seconds.”
Exton swore. She had hoped, no, prayed, that if the Ramanthians were waiting, their ships would not only be a lot farther away, but of a type that she might be able to destroy. Now it looked like she and her crew were severely outnumbered, outclassed, and outgunned. Her voice could be heard throughout the ship. It was hard and cold. “We will engage. Launch fighters, bring the shields up, and give me full military power.”
Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell Page 9