Thirty seconds after getting their fire orders, the four orbiting Raptors lined up, pointing their noses at the Swamp of Perdition, and hovered while they locked their Jerichos in with the string-of-pearls guidance system. Then they let rip in six waves of eight missiles. They turned about and headed back to base to refuel and rearm. Two minutes into their return they wiggled their wings at the other four Raptors and got wiggles back. Fifteen minutes after firing they were back on station awaiting another fire mission.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” the commands rang out. The mind-numbing whine had stopped, mud no longer pulverized, no more flesh and bone exploded. “Report!” Casualty counts came in. M Company had been pinned down, unable to maneuver to join in the fight. It lost three more Marines killed. Two had limbs blown off, but corpsmen reached them in time to stanch the bleeding and stick them in stasis bags to stabilize them until they reached the hospital. Kilo Company lost four men while maneuvering to Company L’s right flank, and another six once they joined the fighting. The assault company had lost two full squads, a third of its strength, when their guns were hit by things.
In Company L, Sergeant Bladon was down. Something had torn off his right arm midway between the elbow and wrist. First squad’s Lance Corporal Van Impe was crushed by a toppled tree; PFCs Godenov and Hayes were wounded. In second squad, Lance Corporal Rodamour, wounded the night before, was killed. So were Corporal Stevenson and PFC Gimbel in the gun squad. First platoon lost five men, dead or mangled; second platoon lost six.
Commander van Winkle didn’t give his Marines time to dwell on their casualties. As soon as the battalion surgeon informed him that he was able to gather the wounded and dead, van Winkle ordered the battalion to get on line and sweep toward the enemy position.
There wasn’t any mud in front of third platoon for the first 150 meters. It had all been baked into dirt by the plasma bolts from their blasters and bigger guns. The dirt was pitted and pounded into dust by the Skink weapons. They had to step or climb over trees; hardly any were left standing. Many of the downed trees—and a few of the standing ones—were smoldering or burning. Those, the Marines walked around. That first 150 meters looked like it had been hit by a swarm of tornadoes accompanied by lightning strikes, but there were none of the scorch marks left behind by dying Skinks.
Beyond the first 150 meters, the swarm of tornadoes continued its rampage, but had been abandoned by the lightning.
“H-Have you ever seen anything like this?” Doyle asked. Schultz grunted a negative. Kerr softly said, “Never.”
Corporal Linsman, now the acting squad leader, had but didn’t mention it. He once saw a forest after a twenty ton meteorite had exploded in the atmosphere above it. This looked like that, except that had covered hundreds of square kilometers. This devastation was a band a couple of hundred meters wide. A couple of hundred meters wide, but how long? He had heard the explosions of the missiles, but couldn’t judge their distance. There was too much other noise, and the sound echoed off and was muffled by the trees. He could see a lot farther than he should have been able to in this swamp. In the distance a black cloud rose from the swamp. What the hell are the Skinks using? he wondered.
A little more than seven hundred meters from where they’d lain to futilely return fire, they reached the closest Jericho hit. The fire started by the missiles was almost completely burned out. Most of the trees had been reduced to embers and charred bits. They continued through. A box three hundred meters on a side had been hit by Jerichos. The area between there and the Marines’ former position had been devastated, but the Skink position, if that was really where they’d been, was obliterated. A few badly charred spikes stood up where trees had been, most of the wood and vegetation that had been there reduced to embers and charcoal. There was no chance of finding bodies or even Skink scorch marks.
“Hey, Dorny, look at this,” Claypoole shouted.
“What do you have?” Corporal Dornhofer asked as he trotted over.
“Damned if I know, but it used to be something.”
It was a mess of metal, some bent totally out of shape, some sagged from too much heat. Parts of it had completely melted and puddled.
“You’re right,” Dornhofer said when he saw it, “it used to be something. But what?” He squatted and used the magnifier shield to look at it more closely. “Rabbit, I’ve got something,” he said on the squad command circuit.
“Show yourself,” Sergeant Ratliff replied.
Dornhofer raised an arm so his camouflage sleeve slid down to expose his flesh and said, “Coming up.”
“Too small for a vehicle,” the first squad leader said when he saw it. “Must have been a weapon of some kind.”
“Yeah, but what kind?” Claypoole asked.
“The kind that was shooting at us, that’s what kind.”
Gunny Bass joined them. “Don’t touch anything,” he said as soon as he saw it. “The navy forensic people might be able to figure out what it used to be.”
“You really think so?” Ratliff asked. He looked dubiously at the twisted, half-melted metal.
“I think they maybe really can. Really. Maybe,” Bass said.
The battalion spent the rest of the day searching the swamp in the vicinity of the fight but found nothing. No bodies, no scorch marks, no equipment or weapons. Best of all, nobody shot at them. They moved out of the swamp at dusk. In the morning they went back in and swept south, parallel to the route they’d taken north. They found no sign of anybody, nobody shot at them. It appeared that the Swamp of Perdition was cleared of enemy forces.
Thirty-fourth FIST’s infantry battalion returned to its encampment outside Interstellar City to lick its wounds and begin to heal.
CHAPTER
* * *
EIGHTEEN
Although not a member of any recognized sect, Conrad Milch was a quiet, reserved, and intensely religious man. As a propulsion engineer all his working life, he had a profound sense of nature’s most elemental forces harnessed in the power plants of starships such as the Cambria. He reasoned that if man could capture the energy of the stars and put it to work for him, then how much more awesome was the Power that had created mankind.
Milch was enormously content on that particular voyage because the Cambria’s chief engineer, a besotted Scot who thought only about his impending retirement, had left the supervision of the ship’s drives almost totally in the humble young man’s capable hands. Milch spent most of his waking hours ensconced far in the aft reaches of the enormous ship, monitoring the wonders of the Beam drive. He knew little about drive theory, but he knew the drive’s components and he could keep them working at peak efficiency. He would happily have stood all the watches by himself; Captain Tuit demanded he eat and sleep to keep his body functioning properly and his mind sharp enough to do his exacting work.
When Conrad Milch was away from his drives, he felt no interest in the other onboard operations or the activities of the crew and their passengers—until the miners from Siluria boarded the Cambria. One day as he passed through one of the recreation rooms on the way to the crew’s quarters, he saw them holding hands, obviously deep in meditation or prayer. Now there was something he could relate to! He often spent the long hours of his watches contemplating the irresistible potency of his engines and yearning to be one with the omnipotence of the universe.
When the men appeared to be finished with their prayers, Conrad approached them timidly.
“What do you do on this ship?” one of them asked after Conrad’s clumsy attempt at introductions.
“I’m a Beam drive engineer,” he answered proudly. The men looked at each other and then smiled. “Do you say your prayers often?” he asked. Conrad was embarrassed by the question even as it left his lips; he should not intrude on strangers.
One of them looked up at him intently and then replied, “Engineer Milch, all men seek to rejoin the spirit of God, the Creator. While in these bodies, we can do that only through prayer and the reading o
f scripture. I believe, brothers,” he addressed the other men, “that God has sent this man to us.”
Conrad felt a sudden rush of recognition! Yes! He understood that! “Well . . .” he began in confusion, not daring to tell such obviously holy men what he was thinking.
“Brother Milch,” another of the miners said, smiling fiercely through his thick black beard, “won’t you join us?” The miners shifted around the table to make an open space for Conrad. Gingerly, he sat down. Yes, he thought in exultation, I will be one with God! These men know the Way! He smiled at them and they smiled back.
Lew Conorado lay in his stateroom, preparing for the jump out of Beamspace. In only a little while the long voyage would be over and he’d be facing the rigors of his court-martial. For the bulk of the voyage he’d been able to put his problems behind him, distracted for the most part by the relationship that had developed between Jennifer Lenfen and himself. But now his mind whirled. He knew he had done the right thing on Avionia Station, but Dr. Hoxey must have built a strong case against him. Otherwise the government would never have gone to the expense of bringing him all the way back from the far reaches of Human Space to face trial.
Under naval regulations, Conorado could ask for anyone he wanted to defend him—another Marine officer, a civilian lawyer, anyone. But who would he pick? He knew no one back on Earth well enough to ask for such an important service. He would probably just let the Corps pick someone. His basic defense would be that he did the right thing as a Marine officer and as a moral human being to free the aliens Hoxey had imprisoned in her lab. He was certain he could build a strong case on that argument alone.
And on top of all that, he and Palmita had to face Captain Tuit after the jump. They were in for an expert ass-chewing. Conorado smiled. If only the judge would turn out to be like the old navy man who in a short while would take a chunk out of his behind.
And then there was Jennifer. The worst thing about the relationship that had developed between them was that she reminded him so much of Marta when his wife was her age. The similarity was so strong that there were brief, poignant moments when he actually mistook Jennifer for Marta. And that made him feel guilty because Marta was alone back on Thorsfinni’s World, the woman who had borne him beautiful children, the woman who had faithfully shared some of the best years of her life with him. Lewis Conorado loved his Marta unstintingly.
Jennifer had asked him about Marta, and he’d told her honestly that their marriage was, just then, on the rocks. She also asked him why he was returning to Earth, and he’d lied. Jennifer had accepted the fact that he was married, had been for a long time, and she had told him frankly she didn’t care why the Corps was calling him back to headquarters.
“But Lew,” she said one day, “I know enough about bureaucracies to know they don’t call middle managers all the way across Human Space without a reason. You’re in some kind of trouble. You don’t have to tell me what it is because I don’t care. I just hope you come through it okay.”
How in the hell did I get myself into this mess? he thought. He would probably have killed Palmita that morning if no one had intervened. He’d attacked the man with the same degree of determination and ferocity he would have used had the woman been Marta instead of Jennifer. And that was the problem: he thought he loved Jennifer as much as he loved his wife.
Jennifer Lenfen had her own thoughts on the subject. All the crew were at their stations, waiting for the captain to give the command to initiate the jump. Her duties were minimal since the computer systems were all functioning perfectly, but she had her station on the bridge just the same. Just my luck, she was thinking as they waited for Captain Tuit to give the command, that the only man I’d die for is married. Jennifer Lenfen already knew Lewis Conorado well enough to realize he’d never give up his marriage on his own. Even if he didn’t love her—and she knew he did—he would never be the one to break the bond. The ache she felt for him seemed like a great big hole through the center of her guts, and it was wonderful. She blinked. A tear ran down her cheek. Goddamnit, she thought, I hope the others aren’t watching! She smiled inwardly and relaxed because, despite her youth and inexperience, she knew that true love was boundless—and not jealous.
Just before the Cambria made the transition from Beamspace, Conorado wondered what Marta was doing at that moment.
The New Oslo police headquarters was a depressingly modern and spartan place. The officers were neatly dressed, efficient, and polite. At that time of the year—deep winter in that hemisphere—they all wore thick black turtleneck sweaters. The men all sported short haircuts, and those who had facial hair kept it neatly trimmed; the few female officers Colonel Ramadan observed as he walked through the corridors to the chief’s office bobbed their hair neatly. They all looked dedicated, but to Ramadan there was something ineffably “garrison” about the New Oslo police force. He had to wonder how they’d operate in the field. He was soon to find out.
“Colonel!” Agdar Vest, the police chief, greeted Ramadan warmly as he entered his office. “So good of you to come to help us out on dis case! I hope Inspector Hamnes briefed you on vat ve know so far about the Conorado woman’s kidnapping?”
Ramadan nodded. Inspector Hamnes, a man of about sixty with a neatly trimmed mustache, was in charge of the operation to rescue Marta Conorado. He had given Ramadan all the information at his disposal on the ride from the aerial port to the headquarters.
“These two—Bengt Trondelag and Kiruna Rena—are professional assassins, Colonel,” Hamnes had told him. “They are very good, and ve have not been able to gather the evidence ve need to tie dem to the murders ve know they have committed—until now, that is. By taking Mrs. Conorado hostage, they have given us the best witness ve’ll ever have. But they are ruthless people, and now they are desperate as well, and I am afraid they will keep Mrs. Conorado alive only so long as she can serve them as a hostage. They must kill her, you see. And the worst part of it is, ve don’t know where they are in the mountains.”
The New Oslo police did not follow the pair into the mountains because they thought they had a more reliable and less intrusive method for keeping track of them. They sent a surveillance drone on their trail instead, an absolutely reliable and safe tracking method. “Unfortunately,” Hamnes had said, “the weather in the mountains deteriorated so quickly we could not continue the surveillance.”
Ramadan thought of the razzle-dazzle technologies sold to the Corps that didn’t work in a pinch, but it was slight comfort knowing others had the same problems. “So what will you do, Inspector?” Ramadan had asked, his heart sinking.
Hamnes shrugged. “When the weather clears a little, ve vill go in after dem. Your Mrs. Conorado is certainly dead if ve don’t. The chances are not good if ve do find dem in time. But ve must act because there is the slight chance that way ve can save her.”
Now, Chief Vest asked, “Haf you brought Mrs. Conorado’s medical and dental records, Colonel?” Conorado handed over the crystals. “I vill see dese are returned. I’ll gif dem now to forensics.” He sighed. “I hope, Colonel, ve vill not haf to use dem, but I must warn you, sir, Mrs. Conorado’s position is desperate. Already the snow in de mountains is to a depth of three meters, and vinter has only just begun up dere. If dey make good dere escape, ve may never find her.”
“Yeah,” Ramadan sighed, “and we don’t have the slightest idea where they are.”
“Brother Conrad?”
Conrad Milch looked up from his reading of the Book of Revelation and smiled. “Brother Benediction.” He stood, and they embraced warmly.
“Brother Conrad, I would like to ask you if Brother Revelation and I might have one last tour of the ship’s power plant.”
“But—But we’re due to dock at Luna in two days. Everyone’s preparing to disembark.” Milch frowned. “I do not relish our parting, Brother Revelation. You and your brothers have opened my eyes to so much! I wonder if we may stay in touch—”
Benediction lay his
hand softly on Conrad’s shoulder. “This may be the last time we can commune directly with the wonderful Power, Brother Conrad. It would make our eventual parting so much sweeter if this one last time you could oblige us.” They needed Conrad because the shuttle between the last cargo bay and the power plant would not operate unless a certified crew member logged on with his voice and palm prints.
Conrad thought. “I go on duty in fifteen minutes. Why, of course, Brother Benediction, I’d be delighted to take you down once more.”
Epher Benediction, the bomb maker, smiled.
The five “soldiers” of the Army of Zion had studied detailed plans of the Cambria’s layout for weeks before they boarded her. They had rehearsed their moves endlessly, until each man knew what he was to do. During the entire voyage, not one had spoken to any of his comrades about the mission. They did not need to. Each man’s duty, along with a schematic of the ship, was burned into his memory. Thus nobody on board the ship suspected them of being anything more than a group of eccentric laboring men, because there was no possibility either the ship’s crew or passengers might overhear anything. Since their luggage was not searched, the bomb’s components lay stashed safely in their staterooms.
The plan was very simple. Two days before docking at Luna Station, they would seize the ship. Benediction and Revelation would assemble the bomb in the power plant, while Gospel, Lordsday, and Merab secured the crew and passengers and locked them into their compartments. At the same time, the destructive devices planted in the lifecraft and on the navigation console on the bridge would detonate, making sure the ship’s Earthward inertia was maintained and sealing everyone on board, to die in the explosion that would be timed to occur when the ship blew up. Lordsday, the systems engineer, would use the ship’s computer to transmit the Army of Zion’s message to the world, which would watch in horror as the cargo, worth trillions, the crew, passengers, and Army of Zion all went up in one glorious nuclear detonation between Earth and the moon.
Starfist: Kingdom's Swords Page 19