Heaven’s Devils

by William C. Dietz

  It was a good idea, and Tychus was about to say as much, when an accelerated spike hit. The explosion wasn’t that big by military standards, but sufficient to blow a huge divot out of the sand just inside the north entrance and cause Tychus to change his mind. “Get the POWs out of those vehicles!” he shouted. “See the stairs to either side? Take them up and put them at the very center of this thing. And do it yesterday!”

  “Where the hell did that spike come from?” Raynor asked, as the rangers hurried to obey Tychus’s orders.

  “I don’t know,” Tychus answered grimly, as his cigar waggled up and down. “But I’ll bet we’re gonna find out.”

  Ottmar and his Snakeheads were sitting atop a low ridge that ran east to west across the plain. The mineral stripper was clear to see about a mile ahead. Thanks to information provided by the Hellhound pilot, not to mention the thick black smoke, the fugitives had been easy to locate.

  Ottmar panned the battlefield with his field goggles. Eight combat four-wheeled light attack vehicles (LAVs) led the charge. In keeping with the Komando’s motto, “Move fast and strike hard,” each LAV was armed with a fixed gun and was large enough to carry two armored soldiers. The four-wheelers could travel at speeds up to sixty miles per hour over a reasonably flat surface. That made them perfect for scouting, quick raids, and rat hunts like this one.

  Two sloths followed close behind. Repurposed to function as tanks, the sloths had once been huge earth movers to which large caliber cannons had been fitted in place of dozer blades, along with lighter slugthrowers for anti-personnel use. Metal plates had been welded all around the circumference of the machines and were angled wherever possible in order to deflect incoming projectiles.

  The rest of the unit, including the command vehicle, the comm-truck, the supply hog, the fueler, and the men required to defend them were almost ten miles to the rear. Having lost their battle with the Hellhound, both of the captured APCs were burning. The fighter, which was running low on fuel, was on its way back to base.

  As the tanks fired on the stripper, the resulting explosions were little more than tiny flashes of light against the machine’s vast gray bulk. “Snake-One to all units… . Save your ammo,” Ottmar ordered. “The Confeds are inside that monster by now. Over.”

  That was when the driver of the LAV to Ottmar’s right jerked spastically and a distant crack was heard. Then, with a ponderous dignity, the Snakehead fell sideways onto the ground. A sniper had seen an open visor and taken his shot. The rats had teeth!

  The number two man on the right-hand LAV was behind the controls by then as Ottmar twisted his throttle and sent his attack vehicle surging forward. The key was to get in under the beast, kill any guards who might be waiting there, and fight their way upward. A simple matter, really—and one he would take pleasure in.

  Ward could see the oncoming LAVs and knew what they hoped to accomplish, as he left the shadows and lumbered out to stand at the very center of the huge opening. Quad rocket launchers sat atop Ward’s squared-off shoulders, and a Kel-Morian gauss cannon was cradled in his arms. This was the moment he’d been waiting for, and there was a smile on his lips as targeting data scrolled across his HUD.

  “Ward!” Tychus yelled over the comm. “Get your dumb ass back over here! That’s an order!”

  But Ward couldn’t hear anything other than the sound of his wife calling their children in to dinner, and the music of their laughter, followed by a series of explosions as the Hellhounds bombed his village. He staggered as incoming fire sparkled against his armor, but was only marginally aware of the danger as he chose each target with care. Once the process was complete, Ward was careful to brace himself against what he knew was going to be a massive recoil. There was a satisfying whoosh as all eight of the rockets left their launchers at once, locked onto the heat generated by the targets they had been assigned to, and corkscrewed across the sky. The gauss cannon was up and firing by that time, an LAV exploded, and Ward gave thanks. He was a happy man.

  Ottmar figured the man who stood legs apart at the very center of the opening was either very brave or very foolish—not that it made much difference, because in a moment he was going to be very dead!

  Then he saw the flash of rockets being fired, the vapor trails they made, and knew what would happen next. There was little more than a couple of seconds in which to think about Hana, the children, and the brown lizard before a rocket blew Foreman Kar Ottmar and the man seated behind him to bloody bits.

  Not all of the eight rockets found their targets, but five of them did, and that was sufficient not only to blunt the Snakehead attack, but to leave the survivors without sufficient transportation.

  Ryk Kydd, who was up on the processor’s stern observation deck, could see the stranded KMs and the burning vehicles. He was very unforgiving. Three shots rang out—and three Kel-Morians fell.

  But the sloths were still in commission, as were three LAVs, and they were damned hard to hit as the four-wheelers wove in and out.

  Ward was shooting at the sloths with the gauss cannon, but he was out of rockets, and it was a waste of time. But he stood there blasting away until Tychus dashed out into the opening and tackled him. Nobody other than Tychus would have been strong enough to snatch an armored man off his feet and push him to safety, even as the beneficiary of his kindness threatened to kill him.

  Then the enemy was inside the tunnel as two four-wheelers entered, firing as they came. Two rangers threw up their hands and went down as a hail of spikes punched holes through their body armor.

  But their short-lived success was over as Raynor pulled out from behind a parked truck and followed the LAVs toward the other end of the tunnel and the daylight beyond. The vulture’s grenade launcher made a steady chugging sound as it lobbed grenades straight ahead.

  Raynor wasn’t very skilled with the weapon since he’d never had an opportunity to fire one before, but it turned out that he didn’t have to be, as one of the four-wheelers took a direct hit, and the second ran into a pair of explosions that sent it skidding out of control. Black smoke whipped past as the vulture carried him around the wreckage and out into the open area beyond.

  Meanwhile, as the first sloth came to a halt beneath the stripper’s massive bulk, Harnack was there to greet it. He was wearing goggles, and carrying a captured shotgun as he dropped onto the vehicle’s rear deck from a catwalk above.

  There was a loud clang as the top hatch opened and fell against steel. That was the moment when the Kel-Morian saw Harnack’s face grinning down at him. Harnack’s grenade fell inside, rattled as it fell into the compartment below, and wound up just a foot away from the reserve ammo locker.

  Harnack jumped off and was fifty feet away by the time the ammo blew. The explosion also damaged the second sloth, which continued to shake convulsively as rounds cooked off inside the wreckage.

  Only two of the LAVs were still operational at that point, and both of them made a run for it, as half a dozen Avengers arrived on the scene and attacked them from the air. Both vehicles were destroyed in a matter of seconds.

  Suddenly all sorts of orders were coming in as ten dropships appeared and began to land one after another. The first dropship to touch down disgorged eight armored soldiers, who immediately went to work rounding up the POWs.

  Meanwhile, Tychus, Raynor, and Harnack began to make their way out from under the gigantic crawler. Moments later Kydd, Zander, Ward, and Doc fell in behind them. Together they walked out of the tunnel and into the sunlight beyond. The job was almost finished—but there was one more thing to do. Find the rest of the Kel-Morian attack group and kill them.

  Thanks to the tracks the sloths and the LAVs had left behind, it wasn’t all that difficult to find the rest of Foreman Ottmar’s Komandos. The unit’s support vehicles plus two LAVs had taken shelter under a protruding rock shelf where they would be in the shade and invisible from above.

  It was a pretty good hiding place, all things considered, but not good enough to prote
ct the KM soldiers from the heat-seeking missiles fired by a pair of Avengers, or the troops that landed shortly thereafter. The fueler was on fire, the comm-truck was badly damaged, and bodies lay scattered all about. “Check the bodies to make sure they’re really dead,” Tychus ordered. “And we are taking prisoners, so mind your manners.”

  Raynor could have remained on the dropship, but couldn’t stand to sit there while the rest of the team hit the dirt. So he followed them into the shadow cast by the outcropping of rock, saw the undamaged command vehicle sitting off to one side, and drew his pistol.

  The door was partially open, but he was careful to approach at an angle, so he could see inside. “Hello? Anybody there? If so, put your weapons down and come out with your hands on top of your head.”

  There was no response. So Raynor made use of the pistol barrel to push the door open, and took a moment to peer into the relative darkness, before climbing a set of fold-down stairs. It was hot inside the truck, very hot, and once Raynor was sure that the vehicle was empty of people, he wanted to bail out. But first there were some files to go through. The intel people would want to look at any reports, maps, or other official documents that were accessible.

  Raynor had just opened a camo-covered briefcase, and was shoving files inside, when he came across a hand comp. A single touch was enough to turn the device on. The document that blossomed on the screen was a letter from one of the KMs to a woman named Hana. His wife? Yes, he thought so. But rather than the sort of letter that one might expect a soldier to write, Raynor found himself reading a story about a lizard. A tale clearly intended for the author’s children.

  Raynor scrolled to the bottom of the document, saw that the story was unfinished, and shook his head sadly. It was hard to believe that the man who had written the letter was all that different from the people Raynor served with every day. That wasn’t what the government claimed, though. According to the Confederacy, all of the KMs were monsters. Brucker was—no doubt about that. But this guy? Raynor wasn’t so sure.

  He shoved the hand comp into the briefcase, followed by a personnel roster, both of which would be eagerly welcomed at Fort Howe.

  While Raynor continued to fill the briefcase, a tiny brown head popped up from the boonie hat that was resting on a side shelf. After checking its immediate surroundings for signs of danger, a small lizard emerged and darted out of the hat. Its mottled body was motionless for a moment, as its tongue tasted the air, and its nearsighted eyes stared at the area directly in front of it.

  Then the lizard was off, scurrying the length of the shelf to the point where it could jump down onto a tool box, and from there to the floor. After that it was a short run to the open door, the fold-down stairs, and the hot sand that waited beyond.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “They fell from the heavens, and they fought like hell to free the Confederate POWs held deep inside KM territory. No one else could have done it. No one else did. That’s how the Heaven’s Devils earned their name.”

  Captain Clair Hobarth, decorated POW, in an interview with Max Speer January 2489

  FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

  It was late afternoon as a necklace of dropships snaked around Fort Howe, turned toward the south, and landed in quick succession. Moments later ramps went down, field ambulances raced out to meet the newly arrived dropships, and medical personnel rushed aboard. Not only were there wounded to care for, but POWs as well, some of whom were in very bad shape. Then and only then were the troops allowed to make their way down onto the tarmac.

  Doc tried to convince Raynor to ride in an ambulance, but he refused, insisting that he be allowed to exit the aircraft with the rest of his platoon. Of the thirty-five soldiers who jumped over the Kel-Morian base, only seventeen were still alive and three of them were wounded. So the bedraggled group that followed Tychus across the concrete toward the buildings beyond wasn’t much larger than a full-strength squad.

  Two men were waiting in front of the nearest hangar. Both were dressed in civilian clothes but might as well have been wearing uniforms, because everything else about them was military, including their haircuts and erect postures. One was tall, the other was short, and he was the one who spoke. “Ark Bennet?” he inquired, as the group walked past. “We’d like to speak with you.”

  Kydd nearly fell for it. The only thing that saved him was the fact that he’d been using “Kydd” for so long that it took a second to process what the man had said. And that was sufficient time for his brain to kick in and override the natural tendency to say, “Yes.”

  Some of those around Kydd knew his true identity, of course—but a frown was sufficient to silence them. And by that time, the shorter of the two men had switched to a different tactic. “Private Kydd? My name is Corly… . And this is Sergeant Orin. We’re with MSS and we’d like to talk to you.”

  “MSS” stood for the Military Security Service, a group it was almost impossible to say “No” to. But before Kydd could reply, Tychus chose to intervene. “I don’t know what this is about,” the noncom said ominously, “but whatever it is can wait. We just came in out of the field. Of course you rear-echelon sons of bitches wouldn’t know much about that, would you?”

  When Sergeant Orin turned toward Tychus, his eyes were like blue lasers and his face was wooden. “Sergeant Corly has a medal of valor—and was wounded three times in the battle of Rork’s Rift.” He stepped closer until Tychus felt the agent’s breath on his face. “You think we don’t know what it feels like to put our lives on the line? To see our brothers and sisters get blown to pieces right in front of us? You watch your mouth, son, and pray you never turn up on my case list.”

  Kydd knew that a large handgun was probably responsible for the visible bulge under Orin’s jacket. But Tychus was armed too, and Kydd could see the pressure starting to build, as the noncom took a step forward. “You know where you can shove your case list, Sergeant. Or maybe I should do it for you.”

  Kydd hurried to get in between them. “No problem, Sarge… . I might as well get this over with. I’ll see you back at the barracks.”

  Raynor nodded. “Come on, Tychus… . You can use your natural charm to get me some service at the infirmary.”

  Tychus glowered, but allowed himself to be steered away. That left Kydd with the MSS agents. Corly eyed the sniper’s rifle. “Is that thing unloaded?”

  Kydd nodded. “It is… . Would you like to check?”

  “No,” Corly replied. “That won’t be necessary. Please accompany us to the command center. We have some questions to ask you—but the process won’t take long. We’ll have you back with your buddies shortly.”

  Was that true? Or an attempt to put his fears to rest? Kydd didn’t know, not that it mattered, because the MSS agents would do whatever they wanted to do.

  It was a short walk to the command center, through the entrance, and down a side hall to an office labeled maintenance officer. Kydd felt an emptiness at the pit of his stomach. Because here, after all of the combat, was a different kind of battle. It was a stark choice. Did he want to go back to being Ark Bennet—son of privilege, a businessman, and head of an Old Family? Or did he want to be Ryk Kydd—soldier, sniper, and adventurer?

  Orin opened the door to the empty office. A round table was positioned in front of a utilitarian desk covered with clutter. Corly gestured to one of four seats. “Please, sit down.”

  Kydd hesitated. This would be a crucial, life-defining decision—there was no turning back after this. What was the saying Raynor used every now and then? The one he always attributed to his father? “You are who you choose to be.” Yeah, that was it. Kydd had always laughed off Raynor’s attempts to impart his sentimental brand of wisdom—that kind of warmth was completely foreign to him. But somehow this one resonated with Kydd, even now, when his mind was filled with anxiety.

  Both MSS agents were seated at the table by the time Kydd lowered himself into the steel chair. Corly eyed a viewscreen. “According to yo
ur P-1 file, you submitted affidavits claiming that your real name is Ark Bennet—and that you were snatched off the streets of Tarsonis by a rogue recruiter. Is that correct?”

  Kydd took a slow, deep breath as he chose his next words. He thought about the former version of himself, the one that had gone for a stroll in the neighborhood called Hacker’s Flat back on Tarsonis, and understood what he had been looking for back then. He’d been looking for a chance to live life outside of the obligations he’d been born to, beyond the cocoon of safety in which his family preferred to live, and earn a place in the world rather than simply inherit it.

  “I filed affidavits in which I claimed to be Ark Bennet,” Kydd admitted. “That much is true.”

  Corly raised an eyebrow. “And the claim itself? Is that true as well?”

  “No,” Kydd said, trying to appear remorseful as he looked down at the tabletop.

  “So you lied to Major Macaby?”

  Kydd looked straight into his interrogator’s eyes. “Yes, sir.” Kydd swallowed the lump in his throat. “I did.” He shifted his eyes toward Orin.

  There was a moment of silence as the MSS agents glanced at each other. It wasn’t the response they’d been expecting.

  Kydd’s mind swirled with worry. Did they believe him? Did they already know the truth? Was his father watching them right now? He pretended to cough as he glanced around the room. If there was a camera, he couldn’t see it.

  Corly leaned forward. “Why did you lie?”

  “Why? I wanted to get the hell out of the Marine Corps,” Kydd replied matter-of-factly. He continued, gaining confidence as he spoke. “I’d heard that a rich kid was missing, and based on the description they gave of him, it sounded as though we have a similar appearance.”

  “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?”