Heaven's Devils si-1

by William C. Dietz

  Once the fifteen-person group was lined up with standard issue kitbags in hand, a harried sergeant took the time required to check each name off a list before shouting final instructions. “You will follow me, keep your mouths shut, and do exactly as you are told!”

  So saying, the noncom turned her back on the group and took off at a jog. Raynor welcomed the chance to stretch his legs. He was keenly aware of everything around him as he followed Harnack through a maze of corridors and down a level to the point where a hatch labeled launch bay blocked further progress.

  There was a three-minute delay before it irised open and ozone-laced air flooded the lock. Then they were on the move again as the sergeant led them out into a large compartment that was temporarily sealed off from the vacuum beyond.

  Rows of dropships were waiting; judging from appearances, some of them had seen a lot of action. And given all of the different insignias on display, Raynor got the impression that the squadron had been assembled from at least half a dozen units.

  Did that imply that a lot of individual commands were under strength? Raynor thought it might. The group pounded across the blast-scarred deck to a much-patched ship. A hand-painted image of a scantily clad, dark-haired vixen could be seen near the bow, immediately over the name: daddy’s girl.

  The forward section of the hull was convex, so as to provide some lift while operating in an atmosphere. Two extremely powerful engines were mounted where the fuselage narrowed slightly before splitting into twin booms that extended back to support vertical tail fins.

  But there was no time to gawk as the noncom led her charges to the vessel and stopped next to an open belly hatch. Her right arm windmilled as she urged them inside. “Move! Move! Move!”

  Once inside, the pilot was waiting to herd the passengers into the built-in seats that lined both sides of the ship. They were ordered to clip their bags to the ringbolts located between their boots, strap in, “… and prepare for liftoff.”

  Raynor tried to think of a way to “prepare” and came up empty. That left him free to look around. Four large crates were strapped to the deck. One was clearly full of medical supplies, given all the red crosses that had been stamped on it, and another bore a label that read: shotguns, torrent(20).

  As Raynor continued to scan his surroundings he saw that there were a lot of black-and-yellow decals on the bulkheads, all warning against a host of sins he had no plans to commit. A handwritten note from one of the previous passengers was visible directly across from him. It read: sowhat’ syourrecruiterdoingrightnow?

  Raynor knew the answer—or thought he did. Gunnery Sergeant Farley was probably drinking beer, sweet-talking a country girl, and looking forward to a steak dinner. The bastard.

  The ramp made a prolonged whining sound as it was retracted, the airframe started to vibrate as the engines spooled up, and a barely audible Klaxon began to bleep outside. That was the signal for everyone not dressed in space armor to evacuate the flight deck. Exactly three minutes later, the outer doors opened, air was expelled into space, and the first pair of dropships rode it out.

  Then it was their turn, and Raynor felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as Daddy’s Girl left the relative safety of the launch bay for the dangers that waited beyond. There weren’t any windows or viewscreens to look at, so they couldn’t see Turaxis II and the blacked-out land mass below. But all of them were aware of freefall, as their weightless bodies attempted to float up off their seats, and a loose stylus cartwheeled through the air.

  The dropship began to shake violently as it entered the planet’s upper atmosphere. Raynor felt his teeth start to chatter, opened his mouth, and saw others do likewise as everything around them rattled loudly. That was when the pilot spoke over the intercom. His voice was even and controlled. “Sorry about the vibration—but it will disappear soon.

  “That’s the good news… . The bad news is that Kel-Morians want to kill us! So a shitload of Hellhounds are on their way up to try to ruin our day. Fortunately our fighter jockeys will be waiting to greet them—and I’m the best dropship pilot in the Confederacy. See you on the ground.”

  There was a click as the announcement came to an end. Harnack grinned approvingly. “He’s full of shit—but I like his style!”

  Then Daddy’s Girl shuddered as something hit her. And, without warning, she flipped over onto her back, corkscrewing toward the planet below. “We took a hit!” Omer shouted, his eyes wide with fear. “We’re going to die!”

  “Shut up, Omer,” Raynor snapped, although the same possibility had crossed his mind. The other recruit looked resentful—but did as he was told.

  At that point smoke began to fill the cabin and the dropship came out of its spin. It was still going down at a sharp angle, however, and Raynor wasn’t surprised when the announcement was made. “We’re going in,” the same voice they had heard before said matter-of-factly. “Brace for impact.”

  Oh, hell. Raynor didn’t know what that meant, even so, he reflexively laced his hands behind his head and pulled his elbows in tight. The ship’s glide path flattened out, and the bottom of the fuselage hit something hard and bounced off. Raynor’s chin hit his chest and came back up again. That was followed by a very short flight, another impact, and a series of successive jerks as Daddy’s Girl skittered across Turaxis II’s surface before slamming into an outcropping of rock. Raynor was thrown to the left, as were all the others on the starboard side of the ship, but the three-point harnesses held them in place. As the cabin lights went off, emergency lighting came on, and an alarm began to beep plaintively.

  There was a moment of stunned silence as the passengers caught up with the fact that they were still alive. That realization was followed by the crackle of flames and a series of loud moans from a recruit named Santhay. Raynor waited for someone to tell him what to do. The recruits were panicking as they checked on one another, and Omer’s voice wailed above the din, “What should we do? Somebody in charge, please tell us what to do!” Silence.

  Suddenly the odor of smoke invaded Raynor’s nostrils. Oh, no. Desperate to find help, he whipped his head toward the cockpit and felt a jolt of pain in his neck. Wincing, he fumbled with his harness. The pilot’s gotta be dead or injured, and there’s a goddamn fire. The emergency lights flickered and Santhay began to make dreadful keening noises. I gotta do something.

  Decision made, Raynor finally released his harness and stood. “Omer … the belly hatch is blocked. Open the side exits and count heads as people bail out.

  “Harnack … check the cockpit. If the pilot is alive, pull him out of there!

  “Chang … open those cargo modules. Some weapons might come in handy. I’ll go aft and see how many people are injured.”

  Then Raynor made his way in. People were using emergency fire extinguishers by then, but the air was still thick with smoke and he was coughing. What he found at the back end of the ship wasn’t pretty. It looked as though the entire tail section had been shot off, holing the belly and leaving the ship rudderless. Maybe the pilot was the best. The fact that most of the passengers were still alive was either a testament to his skill, or nothing less than a miracle.

  There had been two casualties however, which included the decapitated pilot, whom Harnack was dragging from the cockpit. His torso was drenched in blood, but the needle-gun was safe in its holster, so Raynor bent over to retrieve it. His stomach felt queasy, but he managed to ignore that as he stuck the pistol into the waistband of his pants.

  “Come on!” Harnack yelled. “This thing could blow!”

  With help from another recruit, Raynor carried Santhay forward and out through an emergency exit on the port side. Rain was falling, with the exception of a spill of light from inside the ship. Harnack was waiting on the ground. “When the swabbies decided to call these things dropships, they weren’t kidding!”

  “Come on, let’s put some distance between ourselves and the ship,” Raynor said.

  Two of the recruits gently hoisted an un
conscious Santhay onto their shoulders, and the group slogged through puddles of dank mud into the darkness. Seconds later, a muffled thump was heard behind them as the fire found the dropship’s fuel supply, and the entire vessel exploded into flames. A series of popping noises resounded as ammo cooked off inside the hull, followed by a couple of muted blasts, and a sharp bang as an overheated air tank blew, firing chunks of shrapnel in every direction.

  Fortunately they were a safe distance from the ship by then. Raynor raised his voice so they could hear him over the roar of the flames. “Let’s find some shelter. Then we’ll hole up and wait for help.”

  “Who died and put you in charge?” one of the recruits demanded.

  “The pilot did,” Raynor replied grimly. “But if you have a better plan, let’s hear it.”

  After a few seconds of silence, Raynor nodded. “All right then. Do any of you have medical training? No? Well, Santhay needs some sort of stretcher, and then we need to clear the area. That fire is like a beacon. It could bring a shitload of KMs down on us.”

  It took a good fifteen minutes to improvise a sling-style stretcher for Santhay, distribute half a dozen shotguns, and move out. An emergency lantern Raynor had salvaged from the ship sent a blob of white light skipping up ahead as he led them down into a gully, through a swiftly flowing stream, and up onto the opposite bank. He knew there was a chance he was leading them into enemy hands, and if that was the case, the lantern would surely expose them—but he had no other choice. The area was pitch-black.

  The group was on flat ground at that point, which, judging from the piece of rusting equipment they passed, had been farmland prior to the wars. What they needed was cover and a place to hide until the sun rose, when they could better determine where they were. So when the circle of light slid across the side of what might have been a barn, Raynor had reason to hope. Now we just have to find the cellar, he thought, relieved.

  But the emotion was short-lived as someone shouted a warning, bright lights stabbed down from the sky, and the unrestrained roar of engines was heard as two ships swept in from the west. Harnack brought his shotgun up and pointed it at the nearest source of light. Raynor pushed it down again. “Don’t tempt the bastards, Hank … we’re outgunned.”

  Harnack lowered the weapon as retros stabbed the ground, and both ships came in for nearly simultaneous landings. But who was aboard them? Because the nearest ship was backlit, Raynor couldn’t see the vessel’s markings. A cold wind sent shivers through his rain-soaked body. He was scared.

  But there wasn’t much the recruits could do except stand there and stare as the ship put down, the belly hatch opened, and light spilled onto the ground as a ramp deployed. Once that process was complete, a backlit soldier in a bulky combat suit jumped to the ground and stopped fifteen feet in front of them. Bright lights projecting from the front of his armor made it impossible to see. The much-amplified voice was male. “My name’s Master Sergeant Hanson… . Who’s in command here?”

  There was a moment of silence. Finally, when the rest of the recruits looked at him, Raynor took a pace forward. “I guess I am, sir … recruit Jim Raynor.”

  A servo whined as Hanson’s helmeted head swiveled incrementally and gravel crunched under his boots as his weight shifted. The voice was incredulous. “Recruit Raynor?”

  “Sir, yes sir,” Raynor replied. “The pilot was killed when our dropship crashed. We didn’t know where we were, so I figured we should find a place to hole up.”

  Hanson was silent for a moment. “Understood. All personnel will place their weapons on the ground and board the ship. Wounded first.”

  Raynor felt an emptiness at the pit of his stomach. “No offense, sir, but which side are you on?”

  “I collect my pay from the Confederacy,” Hanson replied. “Welcome to Turaxis II, son… . If you like to fight, you came to the right place.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Why do they call it ‘boot camp’? Because if they called it ‘beat your ass camp,’ nobody would go.”

  Staff Sergeant Tychus Findlay, 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion, in an interview on Turaxis II July 2488

  THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  The flight from the crash site to the base called Turaxis Prime took about half an hour. And having just survived a Kel-Morian attack, Raynor knew how vulnerable the ship was as it skimmed the gently undulating terrain below. If they were lucky, the eyes in the sky would lose the aircraft in amongst the ground clutter.

  Meanwhile, there had been almost total silence since recruit Santhay had stopped breathing, and the corpsman had been unable to resuscitate him. Now Santhay’s body was covered with a blanket, and made for a sobering sight as it lay strapped to the center of the deck. That could’ve been me, Raynor thought. What did I get myself into?

  Even Harnack was subdued as forward motion stopped, and the pilot announced their arrival and brought the dropship’s engines up into the vertical position. The ship rocked gently as a side wind hit the port side and the transport dropped through the opening below. Once the aircraft was in the hangar, and two outward-bound Avengers were clear, a pair of thick blast doors rumbled closed.

  Moments after the ship’s skids touched down, two privates entered the transport and loaded Santhay’s body aboard a stretcher. Raynor could tell they had done the same thing many times before. They were gone a few moments later.

  At that point Master Sergeant Hanson ordered the boots to deass the ship, and as Raynor followed Harnack down the ramp, he got his first glimpse of Turaxis Prime. The underground hangar deck was huge. Large enough to house hundreds of dropships, Avengers, and lesser aircraft, which were parked in orderly rows.

  A few of the ships were so pristine they might have been new, but most showed signs of wear. Power wrenches chattered, fusion cutters hissed, and lifters hummed as crews of hardworking technicians in space construction vehicles worked to make repairs.

  As a corporal ordered Raynor and his companions to follow her, a steady flow of incomprehensible announcements was coming in over loudspeakers mounted high above, a jitney loaded with dispirited looking pilots whirred past, and servos whined as a clutch of SCVs bustled along in the opposite direction. The overall impression was one of organized chaos, and Raynor felt as though he were finally seeing the real Marine Corps, rather than the glamorized version marketed to the public. The two couldn’t have been more different.

  A couple minutes later the newly arrived recruits made their way onto an elevator large enough to accommodate a siege tank. The corporal, who was half Harnack’s size, felt no compunction about pushing, shoving, and even kicking the recruits in order to form a column of twos with the shortest members at the front and the tallest in the back. The purpose of the exercise was to limit the formation’s maximum speed to that of the slowest recruits while simultaneously creating a military appearance.

  The cacophony of noise coming from A Deck faded quickly as the platform descended. And it wasn’t until the elevator coasted to a stop four levels below that the boots were marched out onto what they would soon come to know as the grinder. It was a vast parade ground on which they would perform endless calisthenics, learn how to march, and listen to boring speeches. The first of which was about to begin.

  But before they could listen they had to reach the assembly area and do so in a military manner. That meant marching in step. “You will lead with your left foot,” the corporal announced, as the column lurched forward. “No, stupid,” she said. “Your other left! My God … what did they send us? A draft of idiots?

  “Now, try again … your left, your left, your left, right, left. That’s right… . Now you’re getting the hang of it. Bring that left heel down hard!”

  And so it went as the recruits completed the trip to the assembly area with only occasional missteps and outbursts of frustration from the corporal. Other boots, some of whom Raynor recognized as having been aboard the Hydrus, were already present. They had been fortunate enough to land safely, after whi
ch they had been formed into training companies and fed, prior to being marched onto the grinder.

  They were standing at parade rest with feet spread and hands behind their backs. Most were smart enough to keep their eyes forward, but one of the recruits couldn’t resist the temptation to eyeball the incoming troops, and was soon pumping out push-ups for his impertinence.

  So Raynor was careful to keep his eyes on the platform directly in front of the assemblage as a neatly uniformed officer mounted a short flight of stairs and made his way to the podium. It was made out of real wood and the Marine Corps insignia was prominently displayed on the front of it. That was when a sergeant shouted, “Atten-hut!” The result was uneven to say the least and would have earned all of them a lap around the grinder had the circumstances been different.

  The officer clearly prided himself on his appearance. His cap was correctly positioned on his head, his mustache was perfectly trimmed, and his pink cheeks were freshly shaven as his eyes darted from face to face. His nod was short and precise, like a bird pecking at a scattering of seed. “Good morning… . As you were.”

  There was a prolonged shuffling sound as the recruits went back to parade rest and the noncoms frowned disapprovingly.

  “My name is Major Macaby,” the officer began, “and I am in charge of basic training on Turaxis II. It’s somewhat unusual to have a training facility this close to a combat zone, but these are unusual times, and we marines are adaptable. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that there are certain advantages to be derived from the situation, as will become clear once you enter the final stages of boot camp.

  “The purpose of your training is to prepare you to fight the Kel-Morians. And for good reason. Many of you come from planets where fuel rationing and food rationing are everyday realities. That’s because the Kel-Morians are trying to take control of all the natural resources they can in a blatant attempt to replace the Confederacy’s duly elected government with their own corrupt guild-dominated political system. Which, were the effort to succeed, would result in virtual slavery for us … since none of our families and friends would be allowed to join one of the largely hereditary guilds. So there’s every reason to fight, and to fight hard, lest our way of life be stolen from us.”