When Akira finished her routine, she sat down on the floor to stretch her legs. “We don’t have much time left, boys. We have to find a way to contact the colonel.”
“And just how do we do that, Doctor Zarkov?” O’Hara asked. “We don’t have a Questron transmitter or a short wave radio. Good God, woman—we ain’t even allowed to carry around our own personal communication units!”
“Be silent, O’Hara!” Cortez said. “Let someone with brains do the talking.”
O’Hara fumed and glared at Cortez. In spite of her concerns, Akira couldn’t help but laugh. The big Irishman was about to tear them all apart with his usual verbal vitriol when Makki grinned and showed the Diascan Unit to his friends
“Can use this to send message,” he said, grinning from the end of one set of whiskers to the other. “Idea may work.”
Cortez stopped pacing. Akira stopped laughing and jumped to her feet. O’Hara stopped fuming, shambled over to Makki and grabbed the Diascan from him.
“This thing’s a bloody antique!” he griped.
“But still works very much well,” Makki told him.
“It’s not a radio, Makki,” Akira said. “We can’t contact anyone with it.”
Makki rolled his eyes. Humans can be so stupid, he thought. “Diascan can talk direct and exchange information with main computers aboard Iwo Jima.”
He took the Diascan away from O’Hara, opened the back of the unit, uncoiled a thin wire, and showed his friends a link-up jack.
Akira stared at Makki, her expression about as blank as a computer screen in sleep mode.
Cortez scratched his head. “Por favor . . . so how are we going to send a message without the proper transmitting device?”
Makki was about to explain when O’Hara roared with laughter and slapped his thigh.
“That bugger Chanori should’ve killed us when he had the chance, instead of talkin’ our bloody ears off,” he said. “Makki—gimme your laser scalpel.”
Makki winked and handed O’Hara the laser. He knew what the big Irishman had in mind.
“What’s going on in that shamrock you call a brain, Seamus?” Akira asked.
“The Khandra transmitter!” O’Hara said gleefully. “The bloomin’ antenna is right outside our window. I’m gonna burn a hole in the plastic casing—”
“And use Diascan to patch into Khandra communication system,” Makki said.
“Makki, you’re a bloody genius!” O’Hara said.
Makki’s ears jerked upright and his chest swelled with pride.
“But I still think you’re a Lavarian beggar,” O’Hara quickly added.
“And you are one big roaring fat cow!” Makki told him, scowling as best he could.
O’Hara scowled right back, then barked with laughter and slapped Makki on the back. Makki staggered from the blow and almost toppled over.
“You know, of course, that the Khandra will intercept any message we send,” Cortez said. “Vash and Chanori will be able to read it.”
“Not if I use my own personal code,” O’Hara said. “Ain’t that right, Makki?”
“This one has no idea what sergeant is talking about,” the corpsman replied.
While O’Hara set to work with Makki, Akira reached into her blouse pocket and took out a cigar. She patted her other pockets, looking for her solar-charged lighter. Then her face went white. She removed her hand from one pocket and looked at the flashchip Preston had given her.
“What’s wrong?” Cortez asked her.
“I forgot all about Cooper!”
444
Preston lay on the floor of the closet inside the sergeant’s quarters, where Akira and O’Hara had locked him. He was gagged with a bandanna, and his arms and legs were expertly tied at wrists and ankles with a pair of belts. Sweat rolled down his face and stained his clothes as he battered the door with his feet.
When I get out of here I’m going to strangle that O’Hara! Preston told himself. Then I’m going to hogtie Makki and Cortez. And then I’m going to marry Akira and keep her barefoot and pregnant and locked in the kitchen where she belongs!
His feet pounded on the door until the bones in his legs were on the verge of breaking—and then the lock finally broke and the door flew open.
He lifted his eyes in gratitude to Heaven.
Finally!
All he had to do now was stand up.
444
Camp Corregidor was deserted. Not a sound emerged from any of the quarters, offices and workshops. A lone shuttlecraft stood as if abandoned on the airfield. It was as quiet as an old west ghost town, with a warm breeze blowing across the tarmac. A gray bush that looked much like tumbleweed rolled past the barracks.
Sergeant Erin Ransford, quite recovered from her shoulder wound, took charge of a young corporal and two burly MPs as they patrolled the empty camp. Her belly grumbled from the inedible chow served in the mess; all she could think about was a hot cup of red velvet tea, and how nicely it would settle her stomach.
The quartet of Marines walked quietly across the parade grounds, searching for anything irregular, anything out of the ordinary.
Just as they neared the sergeants’ quarters, Preston crashed through the door, hopped across the porch and fell down the steps.
The corporal froze in his tracks and pointed. “Holy cow!”
Sergeant Ransford turned to the MPs. “Place that—civilian under arrest.”
Lying helpless on the steps, Preston moaned and shook his head in frustration.
444
O’Hara grunted and groaned as he stuck his head and arms through the bars of the narrow cell window. Working carefully and with a dexterity that surprised his cellmates, he fed the wire of the Diascan Unit through a charred hole in the plastic casing of the aerial, and connected the link-up jack to the wiry guts of the transmitter. When he completed this delicate operation, he checked the connections to make sure they’d hold, and then turned from the window.
“All finished, big Sergeant?” Makki asked. He hoped that his idea to use the Diascan would change the Irishman’s opinion of him.
“Just about!” O’Hara said. He hopped off the cot, then sat down and began typing away at the Diascan’s tiny keypad.
Cortez chewed his fingernails while he listened at the cell door. Akira chewed on her unlit cigar as she paced the room. Makki fiddled with the laser scalpel, waiting for O’Hara to finish so he could put the Diascan back inside his medikit.
“What are we going to do when the Khandra trace the signal?” Cortez asked.
O’Hara gave the Spaniard a wicked grin. “Fight our way out. That’s what. Now shut up and let me finish my work, Ferdinand!”
Begging all the saints in Heaven to grant him patience, Cortez shook a fist at O’Hara. “Will you please stop calling me Ferdinand? My name is Fernando!”
O’Hara laughed. “No kidding?”
Akira turned to Makki. “Match me.”
“You should not smoke that in here,” Makki said, lighting her cigar with his laser scalpel.
“What else do you have in that bag of tricks you carry, amigo?” Cortez asked Makki.
“Whistler Bomb found on Acheron.” Makki pulled the bomb from his medikit.
“Good,” Cortez said. “We may have need of it.”
Akira gave Makki a long, thoughtful look, blowing smoke rings in the air. “How come you never told us what happened to your family?” she asked Makki.
“Why you never tell anyone you are getting married?” he retorted.
Lowering her eyes, cheeks and ears turning red, Akira puffed on her cigar.
444
Major Helm paced the deck of the Iwo Jima’s bridge. Tri-D charts stretched the length of the instrument panel. The screen of a large, digital clock clicked out the time: 0900 Hours.
So far, all communications between the ship and Rhajnara had failed. But he had just received an urgent communiqué from the Courageous.
Purely by chance, the starship had caught
an unknown warship by surprise as the vessel attacked the Venture, a freighter bound for Earth. Sustaining only minor damage, the Courageous promptly engaged and disabled the black starship, and then captured her crew.
“Sir, the Courageous has confirmed that the hostile vessel is a Drakonian warship,” reported Lieutenant Davis, the officer in charge of communications. “The Draks were returning to their own system when they encountered and decided to attack and plunder the Venture. According to the Draks taken prisoner, the name of their starship is the Dark Star.”
Major Helm stopped pacing. “So once again the Drakonians have violated the treaty,” he said. “Attacking the Venture can only be construed as a deliberate act of war.” He glanced at a monitor. “Where is the Courageous now, Mister Davis?”
“She set course for Rhajnara, sir. Her ETA is 1600 hours.”
“Then it looks like we’re going to war,” said Helm. “At least our AEVs are in orbit, and we can talk to them. Please keep trying to contact Colonel Dakota.”
Before Davis could reply, the main hatch slid open.
Sergeant Ransford and one of the burly MPs escorted a hand-shackled Preston onto the bridge. The Marines exchanged salutes with Helm, who glared at the journalist.
“Where did you find him, Sergeant?” Helm asked.
“On base, Major,” Ransford replied. “Someone locked him in a closet. But he won’t say who. It’s obvious he’s protecting someone.”
“More like four someones, if you ask me,” Helm said.
Preston bowed to Helm. “With all due respect, Major, I refuse to answer any questions until someone answers a few of my own.”
“Might I remind you that you’re just a civilian, Mister Preston?” Helm told him. “You don’t get to ask any questions.”
“Message from Rhajnara coming through, Major,” Lieutenant Davis said.
Helm glared at Preston and then turned to the communication’s officer. “I thought there was some glitch blocking all audio and visual transmissions to and from the planet?”
“There is, sir—but somehow this message got through.”
“From Colonel Dakota?”
“No sir,” said Davis. “I don’t know who sent it, but it originated from somewhere on Rhajnara. And Major . . . it’s in Gaelic.”
“Gaelic? Are you sure?”
“Positive, sir. I recognize the words Erin Go Bragh. And get this, Major—it’s signed by someone named D’Artagnan.”
“Who the hell is D’Artagnan?” Helm asked.
“He was the fourth member of The Three Musketeers,” Preston told him.
Helm frowned . . . and then his eyes popped open. “That’s what Colonel Dakota calls Akira, Cortez and—O’Hara! Only he would send a message in Gaelic. Mister Davis—can the ship’s computers translate that message?”
“No, Major, they cannot. The computers aren’t programmed to translate old Earth languages,” the lieutenant explained.
“How long will it take to correct this problem?”
“At least three hours or so to upload and reprogram, sir.”
“Then get started on it now, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir!”
“Excuse me, Major,” Preston said. “But I think I can translate that message in about fifteen minutes—maybe less.”
Helm stared at him. “You may be a hotshot journalist, Mister Preston, but are you Irish?”
“As Irish as Paddy’s Pig,” Preston said with a wink and a grin.
444
Sakuri Landuro, who now called himself Taluro Chanori, turned from the viewport. He was wearing a zapgun and a black and silver Khandra uniform.
Vash walked toward him and handed him a cup of tea.
“It’s almost time, my son.” Chanori tasted his tea. “Very soon we will wipe the human interlopers from the face of our planet and eradicate the Felisian pestilence for all time.”
“What about the prisoners?” Vash asked.
“When the time comes, have them brought to the roof so they can watch their regiment crushed and defeated.” Chanori sipped his tea again. “And then you may cut off their heads.”
Snark rushed over to them. “Excuse me, my lords. But my people have intercepted a coded message transmitted to the Iwo Jima.”
“How is that even possible?” Vash asked. “We’re cloaking all transmis-sions.”
“We think the message was sent from somewhere inside the fortress,” said the Drakonian agent. “It was sent through our own communications network.”
“Do you have any idea who sent it?” Chanori asked.
“The prisoners, no doubt,” Snark replied, stroking his wattles.
“Take care of this matter,” Chanori told his son.
Vash purred with pleasure. “Yes, Father.”
Nodding to four tigermen armed with tazers and grenades clipped to their belts, Vash led them from the command center and toward an elevator in the outer corridor.
Chanori showed his teeth in a fierce grin. He was proud of his first born. Too bad his younger brother had been such a disappointment, a traitor like his mother, he thought. The Grimalkin lord remembered how he had killed Kriff’s mother with his own paws, after learning that she had been unfaithful to him.
There was no grief, no remorse, and no regret in Chanori’s cold and unforgiving heart.
Chapter Eighteen
The Path to Glory
The Rhajnara salt flats stretched for countless leagues to the north. In the distance ahead, where the Giruda Foothills appeared as little more than bumps in the road, the Baroda Mountains stood like titans of stone capped with snow, their tallest peaks cloaked by white clouds.
Colonel Stella Dakota sat in the back of her armored jeep as it followed the Marine convoy toward the foothills, and toward Jaipur Pass.
The air was cool and crisp that morning, with a clear sky hanging overhead. There were no storm clouds, no chance of rain, which was a good sign: The colonel didn’t need to concern herself with the weather. She had enough on her mind, worrying about her three AWOL sergeants and Corpsman Doon, who worshipped and would follow them to Hell and back.
Dakota’s driver was a young corporal with a shaved head and a nice disposition.
“Corporal,” Dakota said. “Contact Major Helm aboard the Iwo Jima. I want to know why he hasn’t reported in yet.”
“Yes, Ma’am, Colonel!”
The corporal fiddled with the jeep’s Questron communicator for a few moments, and received nothing but white noise that set Dakota’s teeth on edge.
“What’s wrong, Corporal?”
“I’m not sure, Colonel. Either there’s a glitch in our system or there’s some interference from an unknown source—perhaps some sort of ore in the mountains?”
“I doubt that. Keep trying.”
“Yes, Ma’am!”
Dakota settled back in her seat. Acid reflux climbed toward her throat, so she popped one of her stomach pills. A moment later, she took another.
444
Cortez sat on the cot with his head bowed, quietly praying that their message had gotten through to the Iwo Jima. But with the Khandra jamming and cloaking all communications, their attempt to send that message might have failed. He was about to suggest that they try again when they heard the soft sound of elevator doors whooshing open and shut outside their cell. Heavy footsteps echoed in the outer corridor, heading their way.
That’s when he and his cellmates set Plan B into motion.
Moving quickly, Cortez stretched out like a corpse, hands folded across his chest. Akira sat in the lotus position on the floor and puffed her cigar. Makki clutched his medikit and examined the origami starship. O’Hara knelt next to Cortez, hands folded in prayer.
“Anyone got the time?” O’Hara asked.
Akira grabbed his wrist and looked at his chronoband. “Nine-fifteen,” she said. “Now quiet—company’s on its way.”
The cell door slid open a second later. Vash and his tigermen stormed into the cell.
He looked around, baffled by what he saw. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“It’s an Irish wake, ya bloody heathen!” O’Hara said. “Can’t you see that poor old Cortez there died from the hideous torture you furballs inflicted upon his person?”
Vash nodded to one of the guards and pointed to Cortez.
Akira shot Makki a quick glance. He stuffed the origami starship into a breast pocket.
O’Hara rose to his feet and stepped aside. The knife slid quietly into his prosthetic hand.
The guard walked over to Cortez and poked him in the ribs with the snout of his tazer. Cortez opened his eyes and slammed his palm into the nose of the tigerman. Blood spurted. The guard howled in pain. Cortez sat up, grabbed the Rhajni’s head and twisted it until his neck snapped. The Spaniard grinned as the tigerman collapsed to the floor.
A nano-second later, Akira flicked her cigar at a second guard, leapt to her feet and nailed him with a left jab to the throat. The tigerman dropped to his knees, choking and gasping for air. Akira kicked him in the chest, and when he fell over, she stomped on his windpipe.
Makki immediately leapt from the cot and whacked the third Khandra warrior in the face with his medikit, and then rammed the tigerman in the belly with his head. The guard doubled over and dropped to the floor as if every bone in his body had been removed.
O’Hara wasted no time stabbing the fourth guard in the gut. Then he sliced the tigerman’s throat from whisker to whisker. The guard uttered a gurgling sound as he crashed to the floor in a spray of blood.
As Vash turned and raced for the door, Makki tackled him to the floor. O’Hara hauled Vash to his feet and wrapped an arm around his neck.
“Just gimme one excuse to give you a really close shave,” he hissed at Vash.
Sweat matted the fur of Vash’s brow as O’Hara pressed the knife against his throat.
Makki and Cortez disarmed the dead guards. “Good job, amigo!” the Spaniard told his buddy. He slung a tazer rifle over each shoulder, tossed another to Akira, and removed three grenades from one of the dead guards.
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