Kris Longknife: Mutineer

by Mike Shepherd

  Now came the hard part. Here a good skiff driver made up for the fuel she’d saved—if she did it right—and dropped her boat on the dot. Diving, Kris plunged her craft quickly and hot into the atmosphere. Then she put the LAC into gentle—or maybe not so gentle—S-curves to bleed off that extra energy. Kris gauged them through narrow eye slits.

  She had to keep the heat shield between the searing ionized airflow and her very burnable body. Cut the curve too tight, and hot gases would take her and her marines’ heads off.

  Cut it too loose, and she’d overshoot by kilometers. Kris had learned these moves when it was only a game and when she flew one of the best skiffs built on Wardhaven. Now Kris honked her craft over on first one side, then the other—a craft she knew nothing about.

  Kris had preflighted this rig. No trained pilot put her butt into an air vehicle without first giving it a thorough checkout. But she had never flown it! She recognized the manufacturer’s name emblazoned on the cockpit. They had a reputation for building good boats, but once in a while their quality control hiccupped. Kris’s stomach twisted into knots as tight as her grip on the stick. Was this LAC one of their good ones, or was there a hidden flaw buried somewhere in the keel, on the wing support? If Kris pulled too many g’s, risked too much heat, would she break its back—send them all tumbling to a fiery death?

  Kris forced herself to complete calm, the better to feel every groan, every moan from the craft’s tortured structure as she pushed it to its limits. Behind her a marine broke into unfamiliar prayer, thanking his creator for the food he was about to receive. “Someday we’ll all laugh about this,” Kris muttered on hot mike. If we live, she added only for herself.

  The LAC was hot. Despite the shielding, Kris could feel the heat through her suit, rising up to warm, then scorch her rear. The gauge confirmed it; she was well into the manufacturer’s red warning zone. Out of the corner of her eyes, Kris measured the extra bend in the overstressed wing and growing flutter along its superheated trailing edges. The LAC’s flight had turned into a sluggish waddle through defiant atmosphere, worse than any skiff she’d flown.

  Still, Kris demanded more. She was above her approach path. Kris nosed her craft over, picking up speed—and heat—as she dropped like the proverbial lead brick. On path, but now too fast, she muscled her heavy lander into S-curves as tight as she had ever dared on a skiff, bleeding off energy, adding to her heat. Kris fidgeted in her seat as her skin cooked. The temperature readout, confirming the complaints of her own flesh, passed deeper into the red. But not too far, not if there were no surprises hidden in the structure of the craft beneath her.

  “Ah, ma’am,” Corporal Li whispered softly in Kris’s earphone, “my check-back says your suit is awfully hot. You want to switch the blower and chiller to high, ma’am?”

  Kris came back to herself just long enough to make the adjustments. Damn it, her suit back home would have done that automatically. But service suits were intentionally dumb, as a Gunny Sergeant at OCS had drawled. “You don’t want them doing nothing without your permission when unfriendly folks are shooting and all hell’s broken loose around you.”

  “Can you still see Gunny?” Kris asked Li.

  “I think he’s still out there ma’am, but it’s kind of hard seeing with all these fireworks going on around us.”

  “Anybody sees Gunny, give a holler,” Kris said, concentrating on her controls.

  “Yes, ma’am,” came back in several-part harmony.

  It seemed like forever before the temperature gauge started to edge down. Kris tried to get a GPS report on her location, but she was still surrounded by too much ionization. The LAC’s inertial guidance system insisted they were about where she wanted to be, and Nelly agreed. With a deep breath, Kris leaned back, tried to unknot every muscle in her body, and discovered it was a real kick flying this thing.

  “I see him.” “There he is,” chorused behind her. “There’s Gunny, ma’am,” the corporal confirmed.

  A quick glance showed a falling star off to their right maybe thirty kilometers, if Kris could trust her own judgment. With LAC Two in sight, Kris let out a sigh of relief and put her stick over to bank closer. As she planned, Kris was subsonic and about three minutes out from the target.

  She had enough fuel for a few seconds of cruise if she needed it, but with a self-congratulatory grin, she knew she wouldn’t. A moment later, Kris spared enough attention from the flight controls to aim her helmet and its line-of-sight antenna at Gunny’s craft.

  “Gunny, please advise the Typhoon that LAC One has successfully reentered.” Kris waited a slow five count for a reply, then began to repeat her message.

  “Roger, One. I have you on visual. Report your status,” was Gunny’s reply.

  “I lost my uplink to the Typhoon. Can you patch me through to Captain Thorpe?”

  “I’d better. Ship’s been screaming for you.”

  Kris gritted her teeth and prepared for another nice talk with her least favorite military person. She hadn’t long to wait. “So glad you could fit us into your busy social schedule,” Captain Thorpe’s voice was the ice of space. “Report your situation.”

  “I lost my uplink, sir. Lowest bidder, I presume.” That was the skipper’s perpetual beef, that and budget cuts. “Gunny is patching me through to you. We are in position to execute the recovery, sir.”

  There was a long pause. Kris could imagine Captain Thorpe reviewing the reports pouring into his bridge, weighing each one carefully to see what would make a certain Ensign Longknife’s life the most miserable.

  “I see that you are, Ensign.” There was a shorter pause. “Ensign Lien, can you acquire control of LAC One?”

  “Negative, sir,” came back quickly. “Our downlink to LAC One is toast. I cannot fly that vehicle.”

  “Then we go with plan B,” the captain said tersely.

  And Kris broke into a grin.

  Kris had showed up at the planning session with the captain and Gunny loaded with options to find the skipper grinning from ear to ear. “I knew those tightwad civilians would holler for the dogs. I pulled in every chit I had, to make sure we were the ship they got. Now we do this job right.”

  “No problem, sir, we’ll show the fleet and those terrorists that the Typhoon is the best,” Gunny chortled.

  Kris was no respecter of kidnappers. She’d attended part of the trial of her brother’s murderers. Add the IQ of all three of them together, and you still needed a negative number.

  However: “Sir, those terrorists have plenty of specialty gear,” Kris pointed out. “They’ve wiped out three rescue attempts.”

  “Those were civilians. Now they face marines.” Gunny’s voice was deadly cold.

  “A bunch of unshaven terrorists can’t stand against what the Typhoon is bringing to this party,” Captain Thorpe said with confidence and laid out his plan. A stealthy night approach would let the marines do a drop right in the kidnappers’ front yard. The trigger pullers could pop their chutes and go straight to work. Kris swallowed hard and pointed out that a similar approach had been used in the last hostage rescue.

  She thought she left hanging clear in the air the question, Do we dare try the same on guys with this much tech? She might as well have saved her breath.

  “It worked, didn’t it?” Gunny snapped. “Five bucks says we beat the time, drop to last shot, of the Cardinal’s landing party for that hostage incident on Payallup last year.”

  “I already bet the Cardinal’s skipper a case of scotch we do,” Thorpe grinned. Faced with that kind of confidence, Kris swallowed her own reservations.

  The three did a thorough review of all the recon feed. It showed no problems for a close-in jump; the skipper approved Gunny’s close jump. And Kris said, “Aye aye, sir,” like a good boot ensign…and went hunting for Tommy.

  But if Kris jumped now, her bird would make a very noisy hole in the tundra, sure to wake the sleeping beauties below. Kris had half expected orders to keep flying the
LAC and let Gunny lead the platoon. Apparently, the Navy truly was averse to heavily armed marines wandering around without an officer present.

  “Plan B it is, Captain,” Gunny replied on net. Kris echoed him, all grin out of her voice.

  Captain Thorpe cleared his throat. “One last thing before we break this link. I am required to remind you marines that this is not a slapdash search-and-smash mission. We have been invited by Sequim to assist their police forces. As such, you will operate under local law enforcement procedures. I expect you to take prisoners, not come back with a load of bodies.”

  Kris keyed her mike. “You heard the skipper. Those bastards have the right to face a jury of their peers. Then the people of Sequim can hang ‘em.” The troopers growled happily at that bit of information. Kris had done the search; Sequim had yet to ratify the capital punishment clause in the Society of Humanity’s Human Rights Declaration. Kris’s father had almost lost his chance at the prime minister’s job because of the tactics he used to delay Wardhaven’s ratification of that same clause just long enough for Eddy’s murderers to hang. Strange, Kris could never think of little Eddy suffocating. But she had no trouble with his murderers dangling at the end of a rope.

  Done with talk, Kris did a quick check on the hunting lodge. The Stoolpigeon still circled. Its sensors reported all quiet. “Sergeant, does Ensign Lien have me on sensors?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Tell him to tuck you in close behind me. I’m heading for the pond five klicks north of the target.”

  The pause was short. “Ensign Lien says LAC Two will conform to your movements.”

  That would take some good flying. This was, after all, a dark and very stormy night. Kris aimed to set the LACs down in the shallows of a pond near the hunting lodge. From where she was at 20,000 meters, she could make out two or three nasty-looking storm cells between her and there. “Nelly, connect to the local weather satellite.” Interesting, the LAC’s uplink to the Typhoon was hashed, but Kris’s own civilian commlink worked fine.

  The weather feed let Kris plot a series of descending curves around the most dangerous of the storm cells. Still, the last 15,000 meters was bumpy. Rain lashed at the canopy, blurring Kris’s vision; her racing helmet would have been crystal clear. All the complaints about standard-issue equipment served up by the lowest bidder took on hard meaning as she peered into the darkness, trying to make out something before that something made a very big hole in her. Father, we have to talk. From behind her, marines provided a chorus of groans, grumbles, and, in general, wishes to get this damn thing on the deck.

  Kris’s altimeter claimed 1,000 meters between her and sea level when she broke out of the slope. More importantly, the arctic tundra was supposed to be no higher than 650 meters around here, leaving Kris to do the happy math. However, the topo maps of the area reported enough hills, trees, and other exciting terrain features to make Kris wish she could dare a couple of radar sweeps. With bad guys as well-equipped as this bunch seemed to be, she doubted they lacked a radar detector or even a few radar-homing missiles. No, using radar anywhere above their horizon was a dead giveaway. Death in this case was spelled with a little girl’s name.

  Kris put her craft into gentle circles, each one lower, keeping her LAC just above stall speed. Corporal Li reported LAC Two out of the last squall and right behind them, three maybe four kilometers back. Kris grinned. At least if she put her squad into a hill, Gunny would avoid their funeral pyre. Half of them would still arrive to take on the kidnappers.

  Right on schedule, Kris’s low-light system detected the snag she’d chosen for the start of her landing way. Her LAC touched water, hissing from residual heat, tossing spray as it bled off the last of its speed. She put the stick over as the craft started to settle. A moment later, she came to a jerking halt on a narrow, sandy beach.

  “Corporal, pop a night light for Gunny.” Kris said. As the canopy rose above her, she hit her restraint release. Throwing her legs over the LAC’s side, she vaulted to the ground. Wow, was she pumped, a rush beyond any race. She opened her faceplate and drew in a deep breath, laden with the perfumes of water, night, and living things. It felt wonderful to be alive and breathing. She studied her squad as they stamped their feet, checked their weapons, brought their systems up.

  “Okay, crew, we’re down. I know a little girl who could use a hug about now and some bastards who need a hard kick in the ass. Let’s do it.” The five marines returned grim, determined nods.

  I’m coming Eddy, I’m coming.

  Chapter Three

  Gunny’s LAC slid to a stop on the sandy beach ten meters from Kris. As Gunny and his squad readied themselves, Kris hiked over to them, stepping over driftwood and a half-eaten fish thing, and had Nelly beam Approach March B to Gunny.

  Long before the call came for the Typhoon to drop everything and jump for Sequim, Kris had been following the kidnapping; it was the number-one media event this month among the rim worlds. The betting in the wardroom had been two to one that Sequim would holler for the Navy when the second attempt went bust. Kris had put the bets down more to hope than expectation. Then the third local effort to storm the cabin ended with two of their best trackers taking a dive off a 100-meter cliff into raging white water. That, fifteen clicks from the cabin, was the closest the local police got. Kris figured the Navy would get a call, but she never expected the Typhoon to answer it or that she’d lead the platoon. But as an old commander growled at OCS, “Ours’s not to reason why, ours’s but to do and then fill out the paperwork.”

  So Kris had spent every waking moment for the last four days either preparing her platoon or planning this assault.

  Gunny and Captain Thorpe wanted a fast drop and grab, so Kris prepared for a fast drop and grab. Still, one of Father’s Rule Ones was always to have a backup in your hip pocket.

  With little spare time on her hands, she drafted Tommy to help look for plan B.

  “That tundra looks mighty rough,” Tommy said, studying the Stool pigeon feed of the front yard they were to drop in.

  “It’s summertime. Tundra gets messy. The computer says it’s within standards. Don’t you trust the computer’s standards?” Kris asked with a nudge in Tommy’s ribs.

  “Nope,” Tom answered without looking up. “If I or someone I trust haven’t fed the computer the numbers, why trust it?”

  “So you trust God, but not computers.”

  “And didn’t my Grandma Chin tell me to?” he answered without so much as a blink.

  “Find me a back door to this place,” Kris said.

  “I could set the LACs down on this pond, and you could walk in from there,” Tommy pointed out.

  Kris had been studying the pond and the ground between it and the hunting lodge housing the kidnappers. “These woods show as much electronic noise as these other places where the civilians got themselves dead.” Kris had memorized the electronic signatures of the three different spots civilian rescue teams had died. Their bodies were still there; no one would risk bringing them out.

  “But isn’t the swamp kind of quiet, I ask you?” Kris pursed her lip, studying the mud and muck.

  Unlike some city kids, Kris had no illusions about how nice Mother Nature was in the raw. She’d split her last summer at university between running brother Honovi’s election campaign and hiking the rugged Blue Mountains of Ward haven. “Just the kind of place some lazy hoods might not bother with.”

  “But marines and certain dumb boot ensigns like to play in the mud.” Tommy grinned and got elbowed in the ribs…hard this time. But the point was made; there was an exit from the landing site. It took Kris another half hour to put all of plan B in Nelly’s memory.

  Now she laid out a soggy line of march to Gunny. He nodded. “Tough, but nobody joined the Corps for easy.”

  Kris signaled her tech specialist. “Hanson, sniff the route I fed to your heads-up.” It was 10:00 P.M. by Sequim’s 25.33-hour clock, and going from gray, stormy day to dark, even this f
ar north, when Kris’s two squads headed into muck up to their waists. The going was slow. Battle suits kept the icy water out, even as the camouflage systems struggled to match the suits against the ever-changing backdrop. One poor marine’s suit gave up; head to toe, he was sand yellow, no matter what background he waded through. The suits kept the water out, but armor was thin insulation against a chill as cold as Gunny’s heart. And whether the water was up to their waist or below their knees, each step still buried their boots in mud up to their ankles. To make matters worse, gnats or some local equivalent developed a taste for them. Kris slapped her faceplate down as her troops followed suit. Breathing became slow as they sucked against filters designed for nasty things a lot smaller than a gnat.

  As 2300 hours approached, Kris’s tiny command was back on hard ground. She signaled a break while she, Gunny, and her tech examined the woods ahead. The trees here stood thirty meters tall, their greenery perched high on bare, scaly trunks much like the Earth evergreen forests that had so quickly spread across the Blue Mountains of Wardhaven’s temperate region. But unlike Earth stock, these evergreens’ needles ended in barbs. Kris’s briefing didn’t say how allergic her troops were to whatever was in those barbs, and she didn’t want to find out. “Keep buttoned up,” she ordered.

  While the others rested, Hanson searched the woods for any sign of human life, booby trap, or general discomfort. The Stoolpigeon swept low, adding its contribution. “There’re a few big things here and here,” Hanson advised, overlaying his sensor reports onto Kris’s map. “Probably nothing we can’t handle, but it would make for a more exciting night than my recruiter ever promised, and mixing it up with party animals is bound to get the neighbors talking.”