Heaven's Devils si-1

by William C. Dietz

  “Yes, there is an uncanny resemblance, Private.” He paused for a moment as he examined Kydd’s face. “Although you look leaner, tougher almost. So what changed?” he asked as he looked back at the screen. “Why are you coming clean now?”

  “I’ve had time to think it through. I mean, how far would I get?” Kydd inquired cynically, as his eyes came back into contact with Corly’s. “To Tarsonis? Where the family would denounce me?” He laughed incredulously, for dramatic effect. “I mean, is the family still looking for this kid? How long’s it been? Months?”

  “There are quite a few bounty hunters out there trying to nab the hefty reward offered by the family. Damn shame we’re not eligible for it, because Sergeant Orin and I are feeling pretty close to finding our man.” Those words sent a chill down Kydd’s spine. “So yes, even now, the search is still ongoing. We have nearly a hundred leads to comb through.” He pressed some buttons on the terminal. “You may be surprised to learn that your profile was assigned a relatively low percentage rating for a match. But then again, Sergeant Orin and I know that the computers are programmed to assume that all of our military recruiters are law-abiding citizens.”

  Kydd felt relieved, but was careful to keep the emotion hidden.

  “But,” Corly continued, “allowing for the possibility that some recruiters will break the law to make quotas, we ran a retinal scan and compared it to the one the Bennets gave us.” He looked squarely at Kydd. “You’re a match, Private.”

  The floor seemed to drop out from under Kydd. He felt dizzy, nauseous. His voice quivered as he spoke. “Regardless of what you think,” Kydd pleaded, “I’m in this for good, and you can’t take that away from me. I have a great record, I’m the best at what I do, and my platoon needs me.” He paused to muster his resources, which seemed to be fading. “Those men and women—those are my brothers and sisters out there.” He punctuated his words by jutting his finger in the direction of the barracks. His eyes moistened. Embarrassed, he looked down at the table.

  “What he says is true,” Orin said calmly, as he spoke for the first time since they had entered the office. He twirled a wand stylus in his fingers. The larger sergeant’s deep, resonant voice was a sharp contrast to Corly’s. He had brown skin, and his piercing blue eyes had shifted to Corly by then. “He does have a helluva record—and he is a skilled sniper. In fact, the commanding officer of Firebase Zulu put him in for a medal.”

  That was news to Kydd. A medal! It was hard to believe. Here was further validation of what he already knew inside. He was good at something, and the military was his home.

  “So, where does that leave us?” Corly asked.

  Kydd’s eyes shifted desperately between the two sergeants.

  Orin was silent for a moment, and when the noncom spoke, his eyes were slightly out of focus as if seeing himself in another time and place. “Lying to get out of the Corps was wrong. But Private Kydd admits that—and all of us make mistakes. And sometimes, if we’re real lucky, somebody cuts us some slack.” He looked squarely at Kydd. “You’re a credit to the Confederacy, son, and you exemplify everything the marines stand for. Private Kydd, unless Sergeant Corly here disagrees, I believe you’re free to go.”

  Kydd looked immediately at Corly, who nodded sagely and smiled. “You’re a lifer, boy. Pure and simple.” He pressed both hands on the table. “This case is closed.”

  The young soldier surprised everyone—himself included—by letting out an audible sigh of relief. He recovered quickly and was grinning from ear to ear as he stood up and shook hands with the men who saved Private Ryk Kydd.

  Three days had passed since the raid on the Kel-Morian base, it was about 2000 hours, and the HTD was crawling with pilots, marines, and rangers. A lot of them went bar to bar up and down the main drag, looking for the perfect watering hole, but never finding it.

  The single exception was Three Fingered Jack’s, which was so packed that it was difficult to get in or out. A blue haze hovered over the tables, the buzz of conversation made it difficult to hear, and a live band added to the cacophony of sound. Raynor, Tychus, Harnack, Doc, Ward, and Kydd were seated at a large round table at the center of the room. Other members of the 321st were present as well, along with about fifty ex-POWs, and about half of the pilots who had rescued the whole bunch of them from the disputed zone. It was a very rowdy crowd.

  But when a vehicle delivered Captain Hobarth and her medical aide out front, a path magically opened up before her, and everyone broke into applause as she shuffled back into the main room. Then, once she raised a skeletal hand, the noise died down, and it was Three Fingered Jack himself who handed the pilot a mic. “First,” the captain said hoarsely, as she looked around the room. “I want to toast the brave soldiers who led this dangerous mission. Here’s to our heroes, a group of fine men and women whose name shall be echoed for generations to come—our very own Heaven’s Devils!”

  The crowd cheered. By that time Speer’s on-the-scene reporting had been seen throughout the Confederacy—and the entire crowd was familiar with the STM platoon’s new nickname. Thunderous applause resonated throughout the room as everyone who wasn’t already standing came to their feet and turned to face the table where the soldiers were seated. Tychus grinned broadly, Raynor looked embarrassed, Harnack struck a pose, Kydd gazed around in awe, Zander frowned disapprovingly, Ward stared at his hands, and Doc was too high to know what was going on.

  Hobarth smiled, and when the noise dropped down, she spoke again. “Secondly, I want to thank the entire 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion for rescuing my brothers and sisters from KIC-36.”

  That provoked another round of clapping, as the entire battalion came in for some well-deserved recognition, and the Heaven’s Devils joined in.

  Hobarth nodded soberly as the noise died down. “Last, but not least,” the officer said, as she extended her hand to accept a shot glass of Scotty Bolger’s whiskey. “I would like to propose a toast. This is for the fine men and women who gave their lives for the Confederacy and their fellow soldiers. We shall hold them in our hearts and minds until the time comes to join them. Then, as now, we’ll get drunk as hell! The next round is on me!”

  The next couple of hours were a smoky, booze-drenched blur from which Raynor awoke to a buzzing sound, as a sharp object dragged across his arm. Then the worst of the pain went away as the bald man on the stool next to him swore and got up to take a fone call.

  Raynor struggled to focus his eyes and get his bearings. He was surrounded by tiny drawings, no—tattoo designs. Thousands of them, laminated and tacked to the walls, corners blowing in the breeze created by a rusty fan.

  Raynor had a vague memory of leaving Three Fingered Jack’s with the rest of the squad and staggering down the main drag. He remembered stopping to take a piss on a brick building. And he remembered stumbling past neon lights into a doorway with Tychus’s heavy arm slung around his shoulder.

  “Ty-chus … Ty-chus … Ty-chus,” Raynor called out in a sing-songy voice. He heard a grunt originate from behind him. He followed the direction of the voice and saw that Tychus was laid out on a table, where a woman with bright blue hair was busy inking a new tat onto his sculpted abs. For his part the big man was puffing on a cigar while staring at the artist’s cleavage.

  Raynor got up, stumbled over to the table, and squinted at the design. It was blurry at first, but when the image rolled into focus, Raynor found himself looking at a winged skeleton. It was partially concealed by a hooded robe, and armed with an old-fashioned rotary machine gun. There was a mushroom-shaped cloud in the background, and the name heaven’ sdevils was spelled out on the banner over the skeleton’s head. “I like that,” Raynor said thickly. “I like that a lot.”

  “I sure hope so!” Ward yelled out, but Raynor didn’t understand why.

  “Mine’s better,” Doc said as she looked back over a bare shoulder. “Check it out.” She was seated on a stool about ten feet away with a tattoo artist behind and to her left.
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  Raynor was proud of the way he was able to cross the intervening section of floor without falling down. The tattoo artist smiled and moved to one side so he could see. As Raynor examined her shoulder tattoo, he realized that it was exactly like the one Tychus was getting except that the machine gun had been supplanted by a huge syringe and needle!

  “Whaddya think?” Cassidy asked. “Cool, huh?”

  “Very,” Raynor replied airily. “It’s just like Tychus’s. Cute, very cute, you two.” He waggled a finger at Doc and turned back to face Tychus, at which point he delivered a wink and a smile. “Matching tattoos, huh?”

  Raynor heard laughter from all around the shop, and wondered what he was missing.

  The bald man came to collect him. “Come on,” he said. “We’re about halfway through yours.”

  As the man led Raynor back to his table he realized that the Heaven’s Devils had taken over the establishment and all of them were getting tattoos!

  “Sit down, champ,” the man said patiently. “And hold still.”

  Raynor heard more snickering from all around him. He laughed too, not knowing why. “Yup, you got it.” He closed his eyes and took a nap.

  The tattoos took time, as did the enormous breakfast that followed, so it was about 0500 before the Devils finally reentered the base and made their way back to the barracks. And that was where First Lieutenant Samantha Sanchez was waiting for them.

  The officer had black hair worn in a buzz cut, a face that might have been pretty with a little bit of makeup, and a blocky body that was all muscle and no fat. Unlike Quigby, Sanchez wasn’t insecure, didn’t need to run her mouth, and, judging from her hands-on-hips stance, wasn’t going to take crap from anybody. Not even Tychus, whom she chose to address first.

  “Are you in charge of the first squad? I thought so… . My name is Sanchez. I want your people out front and ready to run the perimeter of the base at 0530. No excuses, no exceptions, and no bullshit. Do you scan me, Sergeant?”

  Tychus had served under all sorts of officers during his years in the military and knew the real deal when he saw it. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Five by five.”

  “Good,” Sanchez replied, as if she would have been surprised by any other response. “Maybe you’ve heard of a city called Polk’s Pride… . It seems that the KMs have a strategic resources repository there. And we’re going to be part of the effort to capture it. If we succeed it will shorten the war. Questions?”

  Kydd raised a hand. “Didn’t the first attack fail?”

  Sanchez nodded. “That’s right… . And the second attack failed too. So we’ll have our work cut out for us. Any more questions? No? Well, get your shit together. Because you’ll be up to your asses in Kel-Morians a few days from now and I expect this platoon to do its part. That is all.” Sanchez did an about-face and left.

  Harnack watched her go. “So what was that about?”

  Raynor was tired, sore, and sickeningly hung over. It took considerable effort to produce a smile. “That was her way of saying, ‘howdy,’” Raynor replied weakly. “It was all stick and no carrot. Same way Tychus runs things.”

  Harnack shrugged. “Works for me… . I don’t like vegetables.” He grinned in response to his own joke and slapped a wobbly Raynor on the arm as they headed for the barracks.

  “Ow! Watch it.” Raynor’s arm seared with pain, and as he walked, he lifted his sleeve to see if any of the swelling had gone down. He peeled back the gauze bandage. No such luck. The skeleton was plump and fleshy, and the heaven’ sdevils banner was three-dimensional. As if it had come to life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “… and here at the home offices, our own staff is experiencing a changing of the guard. Six members of the UNN executive board stepped down today, citing ‘personal and professional differences with the current network philosophies.’ This change was followed by two dozen layoffs as the UNN hierarchy went through what one shareholder called ‘significant restructuring.’ What this will mean for the media giant and its subsidiary stations is the subject of much debate.”

  Handy Anderson, Evening Report for UNN February 2489

  THE CITY OF POLK’S PRIDE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  Polk’s Pride had once been the second largest city on Turaxis II, with a population of four million people and a thriving economy. Back before the wars, it had been famous for hundreds of man-made canals that not only gave the metropolis its special flavor, but fed barge traffic onto the heavily traveled river that meandered through the downtown area. In fact, the Paddick flowed for more than a thousand miles before eventually emptying into the planet’s single ocean.

  By now, all but a few hundred thousand of Polk’s Pride’s population had been forced out into the countryside, where dozens of refugee camps were set up to accommodate them, and the city was split in two. For the moment the area north of the Paddick River was in Kel-Morian hands—and the Confederacy controlled everything south of it. But that was subject to change as the battle for the city seesawed back and forth.

  As a result of the ongoing conflict, a mile-wide swath of land along both sides of the river lay in ruins. Buildings had been bombed into rubble, streets were filled with fallen debris, and once-picturesque canals were blocked by half-submerged wrecks.

  Along the banks of the river the remains of the city’s once-graceful bridges could be seen. Each had been different, but beautiful in its own way, which was why they had been known as “The Seven Sisters.”

  All of them were lying in the river now. There was always less flow at that time of year, so that, combined with a drought up north, had caused the water level to drop to a record low. But occasionally a pile of debris would build up behind one of the spans, only to be broken by the weight of the water behind it, thereby releasing a momentary flood. And there, mixed in with all of the other trash that regularly came their way, the people who lived downstream would find hundreds of half-rotted bodies.

  It was a public health problem, not to mention a gruesome sight, so they tried to sort them out at first. The idea being to bury Kel-Morians with Kel-Morians and Confederates with Confederates, both because it was assumed the opposing armies would want it that way, and as a sort of insurance policy—it wasn’t clear which side was going to win and therefore be in charge. But as things turned out, there were far too many bodies for the civilians to deal with, which meant they were forced to inter the dead soldiers in mass graves.

  Such was the landscape as Colonel Vanderspool led Lieutenant Sanchez and her platoon through the once thriving streets of south Polk’s Pride to the edge of no-man’s-land. The office tower that loomed above them was still largely intact even though Kel-Morian sloths located on the far side of the river routinely used it for target practice.

  Broken glass crunched under Raynor’s boots as Harnack said, “Whoa … check that out,” and pointed upward. The back end of a Hellhound could be seen sticking out of an office on the fire-ravaged twenty-sixth floor. Raynor wondered if the dead pilot was still sitting in his cockpit or had been removed by a graves registration team.

  There wasn’t any power in the building, so they had to climb nine flights of stairs to reach Vanderspool’s objective. Since the enemy was on the opposite side of the river, the men hadn’t been required to wear full combat armor, so they were relying on their own strength. Tychus, who had never seen Vanderspool do much more than strut around Fort Howe, was surprised to learn that the officer could climb nine stories without breaking a sweat.

  Finally, a fire door with the number 9 on it appeared, and Vanderspool led the platoon down a hall and into a trash-strewn office. A squad of marines was there waiting for them. When Master Sergeant Rockwell hollered, “Atten-hut!” all of them crashed to attention.

  Rockwell was a man with whom Raynor and Tychus were well acquainted. As the battalion’s senior NCO, Rockwell had a lot of power and liked to use it. And there was something about the Heaven’s Devils that cracked him off, so his hobby was c
oming up with shit details for Tychus and the squad to take care of.

  And now, as Rockwell’s squad stood in perfect alignment, with their backs ramrod straight, they could have been awaiting inspection. That was over the top, even for marines, especially in a combat zone. And as Raynor examined them more closely, he saw that they all wore the same thousand-yard stares, perfect uniforms, and spit-shined boots. The whole thing made him uncomfortable.

  “At ease,” Vanderspool said, as if he were used to being received in that fashion. He gestured to the view. “Do you see the tower over there on top of the hill? The tall, skinny one?”

  Raynor peered out the window to see the hillside across the river—a bleak, seemingly deserted cluster of buildings—upon which lay a tower surrounded by high walls.

  “That comsat station marks the location of the Kel-Morian strategic resources repository,” Vanderspool continued. “Down below it there is a network of tunnels and caves where stocks of rare minerals are stored. If we can capture or destroy the repository the KMs will have to shut down their factories north of the city, their military units will begin to run short of critical supplies within a matter of weeks, and we’ll be able to push the bastards off Turaxis II! So this is a very important push.”

  The shattered windows offered Raynor an unobstructed view of no-man’s-land, the much-abused river, and north Polk’s Pride. Like the sky overhead, the area beyond the river was unrelievedly gray. A few buildings still stood. They looked like headstones in a sprawling graveyard. Thready columns of black smoke marked the spots where Kel-Morian soldiers were camped in the ruins, or stubborn citizens eked out a bleak existence in spite of repeated efforts to force them out.

  “The repository is our target,” Vanderspool continued grimly. “But, as you can imagine, the structure is well protected. Which is why it’s still vertical in spite of more than two dozen air strikes.” At that point the officer handed his binoculars to Zander with an order to pass them around.