Heaven's Devils si-1

by William C. Dietz

  Macaby paused at that point and allowed his eyes to roam the faces before him as if to make sure that they understood the full import of what had been said. Then, seemingly satisfied with the expressions he’d seen, the major consulted a scrap of paper. “With that in mind you will be interested to know that the exigencies of war require us to shorten your training cycle to nine weeks from the standard twelve weeks.”

  A solitary clapping sound was heard, followed by a noncom’s stern order, “Take that man’s name!”

  Macaby smiled indulgently. “Yes, I rather expected that announcement would meet with your approval! However, that being said, steps will be taken to ensure that the intensity of the basic training experience will be increased so that you will be fully prepared for combat when you join a line unit.

  “So pay attention to your instructors, be ready for anything, and give it all you have. The life you save could be your own. That will be all.”

  A sergeant shouted, “Atten-hut!” and as Macaby left the stage, Raynor considered the implications of what had been said. Boot camp had been shortened. Did that mean the wars were going poorly? What else could it mean?

  It was a sobering thought as the latecomers were integrated into the existing training companies. Both Raynor and Harnack were placed in D Company, which consisted of three platoons, with three squads to a platoon, for a total of seventy-two men and women. That was light by combat standards, since each squad was supposed to include three four-person fire teams, but there weren’t enough recruits for that.

  And somehow, by a process invisible to Raynor, he was named as a temporary “recruit sergeant,” and placed in charge of the 1st squad, 2nd platoon. A dubious honor since he instantly became responsible for seven people in addition to himself. One of them was Harnack, who smiled wickedly and offered Raynor a one-fingered salute.

  As the newly reformed companies were marched down a ramp to the dormitory-style living quarters below, Raynor was nervous. All the noncoms seemed so angry—and now Raynor was sure to be singled out because of his new position.

  Each platoon had its own long rectangular room, and once racks were assigned, the recruits were given permission to “fall out, grab a shower, and get some sleep.” All seven hours of it, before they would be expected to get up and double-time to chow. Later, after haircuts, they were scheduled to receive personal gear, uniforms, and weapons.

  But all of that was six-plus hours away, after a sonic shower and some much-needed rest. So Raynor stripped down to his skivvies and was about to head for the communal showers when three heavily armored Kel-Morian rippers emerged from a solid wall, swiveled toward the unsuspecting recruits, and opened fire.

  Raynor saw the assault rifles sparkle, and felt a tingling sensation as half a dozen electric impulses accelerated through his chest, followed by a cry of consternation as they hit a person behind him. The enemy soldiers weren’t real, of course, but Raynor’s heart was pounding nevertheless, and there was nothing fake about the fear he felt.

  That was when the spectral rippers exploded into a thousand motes of light and another phantom appeared. Though nearly transparent, he looked like a recruiting poster come to life, and there was something about his synthesized voice that reminded Raynor of Farley. “My name is Gunnery Sergeant Travis,” the hologram announced, “and I have been ordered to assist with your training. An attack like the one you just experienced took place three months ago when a Kel-Morian special operations team managed to infiltrate a base on Dylar IV. Seven marines died that night, three were wounded, and one of them is still on life support. So remember, the enemy can strike anywhere, and at any time. You are never safe.” And with that Travis disappeared.

  Ryk Kydd was in love with his Bosun FN92 sniper rifle. Or, more accurately, in love with the way he felt when he fired it. Because hitting targets that other people couldn’t made him feel strong and competent. The weapon had a skeletal stock, a telescopic sight, and an extremely long barrel. And that was critical. Because the more time the bullet spent inside the metal tube, the more likely it was to hit the target. And during the last few weeks, that had become very important to him.

  So as Kydd elbowed his way up onto a rise, it was with the intention of qualifying as a Marine Corps sniper while still in boot camp. Something only two people had achieved before him.

  At that point Kydd had completed two earlier “crawls,” and having scored simulated kills in both situations, it was time for one final test of his marksmanship on a specially designed indoor range. Kydd was wearing a helmet, light body armor, a standard combat harness, and protective earplugs.

  “Okay,” Sergeant Peters said in his ear. “Here’s the scenario… . A very important general is going to appear in the enemy encampment about a thousand yards in front of and below your position. A number of other people may be present, but the general is the only one who will be wearing a beret and smoking a pipe. The mission is simple. Identify your target and kill him with one shot. Good luck, son… . I know you can do it.”

  Kydd heard a click, followed by the soft whisper of an artificial wind as a computer-generated panorama blossomed around him. The sky was pewter gray, the surrounding slopes were green, and the camouflaged trucks and hab-units had a mottled appearance. A sensor array could be seen rotating above one of the vehicles, two sentries stood guard, and a wisp of vapor was issuing out of the exhaust stack on the generator truck. Other than that, there wasn’t much to see.

  Kydd was grateful for that, because if the target had been visible right off the top, before he had time to prepare, he would have been faced with a difficult decision. Take a poorly prepared shot, knowing that it might be the only opportunity, or wait and hope the target would reappear.

  While the beret-wearing general was nowhere to be seen, one of the sentries would serve as a good stand-in, and there was plenty to do. The first step was to chamber a round and make sure the safety was on.

  Then it was time to use the rifle’s built-in range finder to see how far away the target was. Kydd eyed the information available on the heads-up display (HUD) projected onto the inside surface of his visor and saw that the sentry was 996 yards away. It was a long shot but well within the Bosun’s reach.

  With that information in hand, it was time to check for data related to the temperature, humidity, altitude, and barometric pressure. All of which would have an effect on how the .50 caliber slug was going to fly through the air.

  Having absorbed the information and processed it, the computer built into Kydd’s helmet produced a drop chart complete with a recommended windage and elevation. And as the conditions around him continued to change, Kydd knew the document would update itself on a continuous basis.

  He was about to move to the next step, and actually set the windage and elevation, when a tent flap opened and a rectangle of light appeared. It flickered as a succession of soldiers stepped outside. Kydd could see them talking to one another.

  That was when a very real combat car arrived and stopped about twenty feet away from the tent. Wait a minute … was the general about to get out of the vehicle? No, the car was a distraction and Kydd forced himself to ignore it. Beret, he thought to himself, I have to find the man with the beret.

  But as the telescopic sight swung left to right, Kydd realized that none of the men in front of him was wearing a beret. Maybe the general was still inside the tent. Maybe …

  Then Kydd saw a sudden spark of light, panned to the left, and saw that one of the soldiers was lighting a pipe! Was that enough? Should he kill the man even though he wasn’t wearing a beret? The instructors were throwing the problem at him on purpose. Kydd knew that, but it didn’t make the decision any easier. And the longer he dithered the less time he would have to make the shot.

  As if to punish Kydd for his indecision, it began to rain. And the water that fell from the sprinklers located high above was not only real but very distracting. The man with the pipe looked up, said something to the man standing next to him,
and made his way over to the combat car. Kydd swore under his breath. The general was going to get in the car and leave! Having made up his mind, Kydd hurried to set both the windage and elevation as the officer stepped up into the open car and took the seat next to the driver.

  At that point there was even less light, the rain was obscuring Kydd’s vision, and the part of the target’s body still exposed was the general’s head. It was little more than a dark smudge in the quickly gathering gloom. And making the situation even worse was the fact that the combat car was about to pull away.

  Kydd’s thumb seemed to move of its own accord as the safety came off. It was necessary to nudge the barrel a fraction of an inch to the left in order to compensate for the steadily increasing wind that was blowing left to right. Then Kydd entered a strange alternate reality in which time seemed to slow. So that even as the car began to pull away, Kydd had enough time to compensate and squeeze the trigger.

  He heard the rifle bark and felt the recoil as the projectile sped away. Then Kydd saw the target’s head explode and heard Sergeant Peters whoop with joy, “You did it, Kydd! You took forever, and you let the easiest shot go, but you nailed the bastard! Congratulations!”

  It wasn’t his father’s voice, or his mother’s for that matter, but that was okay. Finally, after eighteen years, Kydd knew what he’d been born to do. And it felt good.

  The windowless office was many levels underground. An effort had been made to personalize it with laser-inscribed plaques, framed awards, and other mementos. Private Ryk Kydd was standing at attention, staring at the wall.

  Meanwhile, Major Lionel Macaby continued to review the recruit’s P-1 file, which was displayed on the screen in front of him. The youngster hadn’t been in the Corps long enough to pile up a lot of fitness reports, training endorsements, and other bureaucratic nonsense, so there wasn’t much substance.

  But one entry in particular caught the major’s attention. It stated that after only eight weeks of boot camp, Kydd was the best shot in the entire training battalion and had already earned the much coveted sniper’s badge. An honor most aspirants achieved only after attending a special school. But, according to the boy’s drill instructor, a seasoned veteran named Peters, “Private Kydd has a sharp eye, outstanding eye-hand coordination, and the X factor. After racking up some field experience, he should be considered for advanced sniper training.”

  Macaby knew what Peters meant. The so-called X factor was marine shorthand for a talent that only one out of a thousand good marksmen had—the ability to seemingly slow the passage of time as they took their shots. An absolutely devastating talent that was very much in demand throughout the Marine Corps. Experts had been hired to study the phenomena, in hopes of finding a way to duplicate it, but none had been successful so far. Although one psychologist believed that Kydd could have “psionic capabilities.” Whatever that meant.

  The other entries of interest were all related to the same thing: repeated claims that Kydd had been drugged, abducted, and sworn into the Marine Corps under a false name. Furthermore, according to affidavits submitted by Kydd since his arrival on Turaxis II, his real name was Ark Bennet. Which, if true, would make him a member of a very prominent family.

  Of course Kydd, like so many others, was probably just trying to get out of the Marine Corps. But what if the claim was true? And what if Kydd, a.k.a. Bennet, really was who he claimed to be? There were only a few vidsnaps of Ark Bennet in the public domain, and the ones he’d seen were of what looked like a much younger boy, with a more rounded face. There was some degree of physical resemblance, however, and Macaby was a realist. So he knew that while most of the young men and women in basic were volunteers of one kind or another, a small number, say one or two percent, were forced to join by unethical recruiters intent on hitting their increasingly high quotas. Which was okay with him so long as the practice didn’t get out of hand.

  But if some damned fool had been lazy or reckless enough to press-gang the VIP’s fair-haired son, then there would be hell to pay once the truth came out! And the repercussions would start at the top and flow downhill. So what to do?

  Fortunately the answer was right there in front of him. Thanks to the accelerated training schedule, Kydd was about to graduate from boot camp. That meant he would join a line unit within a week or two. All Macaby had to do was buck the problem up the line and keep his head down, knowing it would take the chain of command weeks to respond. Because later, when the shit hit the fan, Kydd’s new commanding officer would have to deal with the cleanup! The plan was clean, smart, and in the finest tradition of the Marine Corps.

  Macaby cleared his throat portentously. “Congratulations on qualifying as a sniper, son. That’s a very impressive accomplishment. As for the claims regarding the manner in which you were recruited, I want you to know that I take them very seriously. That’s why I plan to forward your package to the Bureau of Personnel—along with a request for a division-level review. In the meantime you have an excellent record. Don’t mess it up. Do you have any questions?”

  Macaby saw a look of satisfaction flicker across Kydd’s face and disappear. “Sir, no sir.”

  Macaby nodded. “Dismissed.”

  Kydd’s uniform was smooth, creased, and spotlessly clean as he completed a textbook-perfect about-face and marched out of the office.

  It would be a real shame, Macaby thought to himself, to lose such a promising recruit.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Although losses have been substantial in the most recent skirmishes with the Kel-Morian Combine, Confederate sources report that troop morale is at an all-time high. Analysts credit this to increased military discipline throughout the unified terran forces, including new changes that have been described as ‘strict, thorough, and rigorous.’”

  Max Speer, Evening Report for UNN August 2488

  MILITARY CORRECTIONAL FACILITY-R-156, ON THE PLANET RAYDIN III

  The day began as it always did with the harsh sound of the Klaxon that signaled when to get up, when to eat, and when to do everything else of any importance. That was followed by the sound of Sergeant Bellamy’s belligerent voice as he entered Barracks #3. “Hit the floor! This ain’t no flickin’ resort. That includes you, Sergeant Findlay …” he mocked. “Get your ass in gear.”

  Yeah, rub it in, you waste of life. The day you actually see combat is the day you can shit on my parade.

  Bellamy made it a point to broadcast daily that Tychus wasn’t a sergeant anymore. He’d been demoted to private the day he had appeared at the summary court-martial, and been sentenced to three months’ hard labor.

  Tychus’s feet were sticking out over the end of the steel-frame bed, and he was in the process of pulling them in when the swagger stick struck. The blow hurt. Tychus swore and Bellamy grinned. “How ’bout it? Have you had enough? Is today the day? You can take me… . So have at it.”

  Bellamy was a small man, commonly referred to as “the runt” behind his back, and eternally on the lookout for opportunities to impose his will on the larger prisoners, Tychus being his favorite target. He was dressed in a parade ground–perfect uniform, his nose plugs were dangling on the front of his chest, and his right hand rested on the swagger stick that was clenched under his arm.

  Back during the Roman Empire on Old Earth, swagger sticks had been functional implements that were used to direct military maneuvers or to administer physical punishments, but they had long since become symbolic in nature. Some officers and noncoms continued to carry them, especially those who were insecure, and Bellamy fit the pattern. His was a handmade affair carved out of highly polished wood with silver caps at both ends. Bellamy stuck his jaw out as if inviting Tychus to take a swing at it. An offense that could double the prisoner’s sentence.

  Tychus was on his feet by that time. He knew that Bellamy’s comments were intended to provoke a violent reaction so he would receive an even harsher sentence. But more than that, Bellamy was trying to intimidate the other prisoners b
y demonstrating his mastery of a much larger man. “Thanks for the invite,” Tychus rumbled, “but I think I’ll pass.” You rat-faced sonofabitch.

  Bellamy grinned. “Life sucks, doesn’t it, Findlay? You’re damned if you do—and damned if you don’t. But one thing’s for sure … if you aren’t dressed and present for muster in ten minutes, you’ll be hauling the cart today … and all by yourself.”

  Tychus sighed. It was all part of the game. A game Tychus himself had found great pleasure in playing—on the other side of the field, of course. He knew the key was to stay cool, and never react. I’d like to see you haul that cart, you twitchy little rodent, Tychus thought, but didn’t bat an eye as Bellamy studied him, frowning.

  While Bellamy had been messing with him, the other prisoners had been busy hitting the sonic showers. Now it was impossible for him to shave, shower, and be ready for inspection in ten minutes. So he took the only course open to him. “That sounds good, Sergeant … I could use a good workout.”

  None of the prisoners who were in earshot were foolish enough to laugh, but there were plenty of grins, as they hurried to get ready.

  Tychus was two minutes late when he left the barracks, accepted a nose-hose and an air bottle from a private and put the rig on. Bellamy was waiting, and wasted little time announcing that because of his late arrival, Tychus would have to haul the cart all by himself. But since most of the prisoners already knew about the punishment, the gasps of astonishment the noncom had been hoping for weren’t forthcoming.