Heaven's Devils si-1

by William C. Dietz

  Such were Vanderspool’s thoughts as the ship flared in for a landing and the ramp went down. He made eye contact with Lieutenant Fitz, the officer in command of the resocialized marines, and the other man nodded. His people were ready. All of them were equipped with black armor so that anyone who saw them would assume they were Kel-Morian troops.

  Confident that everything was proceeding according to plan and that there weren’t any hostile troops waiting for him below, Vanderspool made his way down the ramp and onto the tarmac. His visor was open so he could see the lead gray sky, the fuel tanks located a few hundred feet beyond the starport, and the factories beyond. Meanwhile, other dropships were landing further out.

  A jitney had pulled away from the low-lying terminal building and was coming out to meet him. That was to be expected, given the circumstances, and Vanderspool waited patiently as the vehicle drew up and two men hopped out. They wore black berets, mismatched uniforms, and symbols of rank Vanderspool had never seen before. Were they mercenaries? Or the equivalent of prison guards?

  The one on the left was tall and thin. He had heavy brows, half-lidded eyes, and prominent cheekbones. The other man was of average height and equipped with a bulbous nose covered with a tracery of broken veins. And, judging from his expression, he was upset. “Who are you?” he demanded aggressively, as his eyes roamed Vanderspool’s armor, searching for some sign of the Kel-Morian unit to which the visitor belonged. “Why wasn’t I informed that you were coming?”

  “My name is Stokes,” the Confederate officer lied. “And you are?”

  “Overseer Dankin,” the man replied. “I am in charge of both the starport and the town of Korsy.”

  “Excellent,” Vanderspool said cheerfully, as he brought a gauss pistol out from behind his back and shot Dankin between the eyes. “You’re just the man I’m looking for.”

  The second Kel-Morian flinched as a look of surprise appeared on Dankin’s face and he fell over backward. The flat crack of the report sent a flock of birds up off the starport’s control tower, where they circled for a moment before landing again. The empty casing pinged as it bounced off the tarmac.

  Vanderspool’s pistol was aimed at the other man by then. The Kel-Morian’s lips were moving but no sound came out. Vanderspool smiled engagingly. “I could use a guide… . Would you be interested in the job?”

  The security officer nodded jerkily.

  “Perfect,” Vanderspool said. “Please be so kind as to surrender your sidearm and tell me all about the town of Korsy.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “Sometimes one rocket isn’t enough to solve a problem. That’s why I carry eight.”

  Private Connor Ward, heavy artillery, 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion, in an interview on Turaxis II March 2489

  THE TOWN OF KORSY, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  In the wake of Lieutenant Sanchez’s death Tychus had been named interim platoon leader, an unusual assignment for someone of his rank, but one he was happy with given what he knew to be Vanderspool’s real plan for the Heaven’s Devils. But Tychus had a plan of his own. One that would take care of Operation Early Retirement once and for all!

  Sergeant Pinkham was in charge of the second squad. Both he and Tychus were about the same age, had the same larcenous instincts, and enjoyed a long-running love affair with Scotty Bolger’s Old No. 8. So once the other noncom was given the opportunity to hear from both Kydd and Zander, he’d been quick to bring his people in on the counterplot, rather than face the prospect of resocialization.

  As the 1st platoon left the dropship for the tarmac below, Tychus turned toward the front of the ship. The pilot had his helmet off and turned to look as the noncom stuck his head into the cockpit. “We’re about to head out. Now, just to make sure you’ll be here when we return, please remove the security lock-out from under the instrument panel and hand it over.”

  The pilot’s face turned red, and he was just about to go off on the noncom, when Tychus frowned disapprovingly. “Sorry, sir … I don’t have time to listen to your bullshit. Give me the lock-out or I’ll kill you. And don’t try to fake me out. I did my homework.”

  The pilot’s face turned pale. He reached under the lower edge of the instrument panel and felt for the cylinder. Without the device it would be impossible to start the engines. Having found the lock-out, he gave it one turn to the right and felt it pop into his hand. An enormous gauntlet was waiting when he turned back. “Don’t lose it,” the pilot warned. “Because all of us will be stuck here if you do.”

  “Roger that,” Tychus said approvingly, as he tucked the device away. “Now, unless I call you, stay off the comm. Private Haster is going to stay here and keep you company. Hand me your sidearm.”

  “This is entirely unnecessary,” the pilot objected, as he complied with the noncom’s instructions.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Tychus replied. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  Tychus gave the pistol to Haster, cautioned the private to stay alert, and made his way down the ramp to where the rest of the platoon was waiting. Vanderspool arrived seconds later in one of the sabers that had been unloaded from the third dropship. Vanderspool jumped out onto the tarmac. “Lieutenant Fitz and I will take the marines to the train station,” Vanderspool said as he jumped onto the tarmac. “Your job is to sweep the west side of town, deal with any KMs you come across, and make sure the area is secure. Meet me at the lev station at 1330 hours and not a second later. Understood?”

  “Sir, yes sir,” Tychus replied.

  “Good. You have a suit comm… . Use it if you need to. Execute.”

  Tychus saluted in the vain hope that an enemy sniper would see the gesture of respect and put a bullet through Vanderspool’s visor. But nothing happened as he turned to rejoin his platoon.

  Having assigned all of the vehicles to the resocialized marines, Vanderspool, his Kel-Morian guide, and Lieutenant Fitz left the starport a few minutes later with a column of armored resocs double-timing along behind.

  Tychus gave them a one-fingered salute as they left, waved his platoon forward, and led them west toward the low-slung food processing plants. The starport’s comm tower was topped with an array of sensors, as were the metal masts that stood at regular intervals, so Tychus knew someone was watching as they crossed the parking lot. Would they send a force of soldiers out to meet him? Or had the loss of their commanding officer thrown the Kel-Morians into a state of confusion?

  The answer came quickly as a door opened and half a dozen unarmored soldiers spilled out into the parking lot, firing their slugthrowers. Tychus didn’t even slow down as the bullets pinged against his hardskin. He simply bowled two of the KMs over, knowing that the men behind him would handle the rest as he burst through the open door and entered the plant beyond.

  The interior was lit by skylights, and there, under the cold gray light, hundreds of workers could be seen standing in front of long tables upon which all manner of produce was being sized and sorted. They had gaunt faces, and were dressed in little more than rags, as they turned to look at the invaders.

  “You’ve been liberated!” Tychus announced via his external speakers, knowing that once the workers flooded into the streets it would make it that much harder for the Kel-Morians to reassert control of the town.

  But the workers had been slaves for a long time, and rather than head for the exits, they remained right where they were. So Tychus fired a short burst through one of the skylights, saw them flinch as broken glass showered down on them, and felt a sense of satisfaction as the mad scramble to escape began.

  Having cleared the processing plants, Tychus led his platoon south along the western security fence with plans to turn east to rendezvous with Vanderspool at the lev station. It was necessary to pause every once in a while to deal with pockets of resistance, but the Kel-Morian troops weren’t equipped to handle combat-armored soldiers, and were quickly dealt with. Tychus didn’t even break a sweat. “Maintain your intervals,” h
e said. “Don’t bunch up.”

  He took a hard left and began to follow one of the main streets east toward the railroad tracks. That was when three soldiers ran out into the street. Two opened up with assault weapons as the third fired a rocket launcher. The heat-seeking missile seemed to wobble slightly as it left the tube. Then it locked onto a target, drew a straight line to Sergeant Pinkham, and exploded on impact. The resulting boom echoed between the surrounding buildings as it sent pieces of armor and chunks of bloody flesh flying in every direction. Thanks to the space between them, none of the other soldiers suffered more than minor damage to their suits.

  “Shoot them, goddamn it!” Tychus roared. “What are you waiting for?”

  The man with the rocket launcher had less than three seconds to celebrate his kill before Kydd brought him down. Then Zander fired and a second KM fell. But the third turned, ran up a short flight of stairs, and pushed his way through a door.

  Zander checked his ammo indicator, saw that he still had 357 spikes left, and followed the soldier up the stairs, through the door, and into a lobby. Two young women were huddled off to one side, sobbing, as Zander appeared. Even though Zander was small compared to his friends, he looked enormous in his armor, and they were clearly terrified when the blue giant paused to look down at them. A servo whirred as Zander’s visor slid out of the way. He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t cry… . I won’t hurt you. What is this place?”

  “I-i-i-t’s a daycare,” the taller of the two women sobbed.

  “Take a walk,” Zander said kindly. “I’m going to kill the man who went inside.”

  They took off down the stairs.

  Ward was there, right behind Zander, ready to back him up. “The bastard will be waiting for you.”

  “Yeah,” Zander said, “I know.” And with that he turned to push the door open. A small-caliber bullet hit Zander right in the middle of the chest as he entered the office. The soldier was standing in front of a desk holding a wailing toddler with one hand, and a pistol with the other. His rifle was slung across his back. The handgun came up so that it was pointed at the child. “Get out!” he snarled. “Get out or the kid dies.”

  Without a second’s hesitation, Zander pulled the trigger and the gauss rifle jumped. It was pointed down, but not all the way down, and the guard screamed as the lower part of his left leg disappeared. The Kel-Morian fired reflexively, but the bullet missed the toddler’s head by a fraction of an inch, and Zander was there to catch the child as the soldier fell. By then, he was rolling around on the floor trying to stop the bleeding with both hands.

  Concerned as to what the toddler might see next, Zander held him so they could see each other through the open faceplate, and was rewarded with a big grin.

  The screaming stopped when Ward kicked the soldier in the head. “Come on, Max… . We have to go.”

  “Yeah,” Zander said, as he jiggled the toddler up and down. “You go ahead… . These people need to haul ass while they can. I grew up in a place like this so I know how to get a lot of children from one place to the next. I’ll get them started in the right direction and catch up with you in a few minutes.”

  Ward started to object, started to say that Tychus would be pissed, but the words died in his throat. He couldn’t help but think of his own children—and the raid that killed them. “Okay, but you hurry … hear me?”

  As Ward turned to leave, the toddler bopped Zander on the head with a tiny fist, and giggled.

  Some of the Kel-Morians were still on the loose. Raynor knew that. But at least a couple dozen of the bastards had been dealt with—and he figured that was good enough for government work. So, cognizant of the time, he and Tychus led what remained of the shrinking command east toward the train station.

  Half were on one side of the street, half on the other, their eyes roaming the storefronts opposite them, looking for any signs of resistance. There were open windows, and the occasional flash of a face, but no signs of opposition as they put the business district behind them and entered the industrial area beyond. The town was strangely quiet, as if holding its breath to see what would happen next. And that was a good question. What would happen next? Would the train arrive on time? Would they be able to get the drop on Vanderspool and his “brain-panned” marines? If not, a whole bunch of people were going to die.

  A couple of the resocs were out on the platform in front of the train station, acting as lookouts. Their visors were open, and Raynor saw one of them murmur something into his comm unit before producing a generic resoc smile, which he directed at Tychus. “Good morning, Sergeant.”

  As Tychus led the others forward, Raynor wondered how the marine could say something over the comm without it coming in over the company freq. Unless the resocs were communicating with Vanderspool on a private push! And why would they want to do that unless …

  Raynor wanted to say something, wanted to warn Tychus of possible trouble, but it was too late by then. The noncom had already pushed the door open and was inside the train station. The ceiling was low, rows of bench-style seats took up most of the waiting room, and the loading platform was visible beyond. “Well done,” Vanderspool said expansively, as he came forward to meet them. “The train is due in ten minutes, and we’re ready to receive it.”

  “Lieutenant Fitz,” Vanderspool continued. “Please position Sergeant Findlay and his troops where you think they’ll do the most good.”

  Raynor couldn’t help but notice the way in which Fitz placed each member of Heaven’s Devils up front, where they would not only be the first to make contact with the Kel-Morians, but would be caught in a crossfire if the resocs chose to fire on them from behind.

  But, as the train appeared to the north and began to slow, there wasn’t anything he could do but check his rifle and sweat into his hardskin. Stealing was a lot harder than he thought it would be.

  Overseer Aaron Pax eyed his HUD as the high-speed lev train rounded a gentle curve and began to decelerate. Thanks to the counter located in the lower left-hand corner of his HUD, he knew that the maglev would arrive in one minute and thirty seconds.

  Assuming that everything had gone well, Vanderspool and his troops would be in complete control of the town by that point and awaiting his arrival. Once the doors opened, they expected to board the train virtually unopposed, overcome a force of twenty unarmored troops, and steal forty chests of ardeon crystals worth one billion credits. Crystals that would be worth more, much more, when the war ended, as it would soon.

  That’s what Vanderspool and his troops were expecting. What would actually take place was quite different. Pax was still furious about the truck that had disappeared during the Fort Howe disaster. Vanderspool swore that someone else had taken it, but Pax never believed that. The Kel-Morian was buzzing with excitement. Revenge would be sweet.

  Once the maglev came to a stop, and the Confederates came out to meet it, a platoon of carefully chosen rippers would attack them. Then, having been taken by surprise, the hijackers would be slaughtered.

  Later, after the battle was over, Pax would claim that a small group of Confederates had been able to escape with the crystals. Would he be promoted in the wake of such a loss? No, but he wouldn’t be punished either, because who could possibly anticipate such a daring raid?

  Once the inevitable investigation was over, Pax would return to Korsy and retrieve the crystals from a hiding place that had already been prepared. Only two of the rippers knew about it, and once the treasure was safely hidden away, both of them were going to die. Later, in return for a larger cut, Errol Bennet had already agreed to spirit the treasure away.

  It was a good plan—no, an excellent plan. What had been little more than a blur resolved itself into a security fence as the train continued to slow, with some globe-shaped fuel tanks beyond, and a succession of dreary buildings. The town of Korsy certainly didn’t look like much, but it was a very special place, or soon would be. The thought brought a smile to Pax’s lips.

  ***<
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  Vanderspool was keyed up as the Kel-Morian train came into sight and began to slow. Everything was going according to plan, and he was about to be very wealthy. “Okay,” Vanderspool said over the scrambled command frequency. “Safeties off and stand by. And remember … take no prisoners. Over.”

  There was a series of clicks as both the Heaven’s Devils and the resocialized marines acknowledged the order. The train produced a loud hissing noise as it came to a halt. Then the doors slid open, rippers surged out onto the platform, and the slaughter began.

  “Bastards!” Vanderspool knew he’d been double-crossed the moment the first ripper appeared and Ward put a rocket into him. But Vanderspool wasn’t about to give up as the enemy soldier exploded and showered the platform with bloody confetti. Not with one billion credits on the line.

  “Fire!” Vanderspool yelled, as he pulled the trigger on his rifle and took a series of hits. Internal alarms sounded as spikes penetrated the outer layers of his armor and sent him stumbling backward.

  Two or three rippers staggered as Tychus and a resocialized marine fired a flurry of gauss spikes. The KMs’ patchwork armor held for a moment and then failed as a second volley cut them down. “Kill them!” Vanderspool shouted. “Kill all of them!”

  Knowing that they’d be engaging in close quarters combat, about a third of the Kel-Morians had armed themselves with large-bore slugthrowers. The Confederate troops reeled under the impact of the Kel-Morian assault and were forced to give ground.

  It could have been a rout. Would have been a rout. Except that was when Harnack stepped forward and, with no friendlies in the way, pulled the trigger on his igniter. There was a loud whump as a wave of fire washed across the oncoming rippers. Two of them began to beat at themselves in an attempt to extinguish the flames, and the rest of the KMs were unable to advance.

  That was enough for the train’s engineer, who took over from the computer that normally controlled the maglev. He released the brakes, pushed the throttle forward, and the badly scorched train pulled away from the station.