by Rick Shelley
Tebba shrugged. “I guess they figure there aren’t enough rebels left to be that big a threat. This is just rumor, but the word is that more than two thousand of them have been killed since we got here. I know for a fact that the militia collected more than twelve hundred rebel rifles this morning, from a like number of bodies.”
Lon could not repress a slight shudder. “Bodies? No prisoners?”
“Not many,” Tebba said. “I know of only five rebels who were taken alive and unwounded. There may be a hundred or more who were wounded too badly to keep on fighting. They’re being cared for by our people right now. Guess the old man doesn’t trust them to the government. Don’t say as I blame him.”
The walk back to Norbank City was taken in easy stages. The company stopped for five minutes each half hour. Even so, it took only two hours to make the trip. The people in the capital were in a festive mood, despite the fact that their militia companies had suffered 38 percent casualties—killed and wounded—in the previous night’s battle. No one seemed to have any doubt that the danger of the Divinist rebellion was past, that they would be able to handle those who remained.
Twenty minutes after Alpha Company reached the city, Bravo arrived. They were guarding the few prisoners who were not wounded. Tebba Girana had missed the count. Bravo had eight rebels with them.
More than a hundred civilians came to stare at the prisoners, to jeer and curse. The soldiers of Bravo’s first platoon kept the civilians away, forming a ring around the prisoners, rifles at port arms. The rest of the company remained nearby, but not overtly part of the protection. Alpha Company was also close, in case things got out of hand.
I don’t give much for the odds of them surviving long after we leave, Lon thought. Somebody gave this mob the idea, they might try to stone the prisoners to death right now.
It took fifteen minutes before a platoon of Norbanker militia arrived, escorting Colonel Alfred Norbank, the commander of the militia. Colonel Norbank went straight to Captain Wallis Ames, Bravo Company’s commander.
“We’ll take these men off your hands now, Captain,” Colonel Norbank said. “I’ve brought sufficient guards.”
“Glad to have your men here to help, Colonel,” Captain Ames said, “but I can’t turn them over to you yet. Sorry. My colonel told me to see them safely into town, but I don’t have orders to turn them over to local authorities. And until Colonel Flowers does issue those orders, these men are still my responsibility.”
Colonel Norbank hesitated, as if ready to argue the point. Lon Nolan watched closely. He was only twenty yards from the confrontation. He could see how tense the colonel was, and he saw when he made his decision. Colonel Norbank’s posture relaxed, just slightly.
“I understand orders, Captain,” he said, nodding. “I think it is a waste, but we will wait for your colonel to release these traitors.” He turned to the militia lieutenant with him and gave orders for his platoon to take up positions around the prisoners, with the Dirigenters. Once they were in place, Colonel Norbank went closer to the captured rebels himself. He started around the group, moving clockwise, just inside the circle of soldiers and militiamen who were guarding them.
“They don’t seem so fierce now,” he said, turning toward Captain Ames, who had remained outside the circle.
What happened next came too quickly for anyone to stop it, or even give warning, but at the same time, Lon thought it seemed to be happening in slow motion.
He caught a movement among the prisoners out of the corner of an eye. One of them seemed to reach into the front of his trousers, as if he were going to scratch himself. The hand seemed to reach deep into his crotch. When the hand came back out, the other hand went to meet it. Lon blinked as the realization hit him that the man had managed to hide a hand grenade, and had it out now.
By the time Lon realized what was happening and opened his mouth to shout a warning, it was too late. The prisoner lunged toward Colonel Norbank, extending the grenade in front of him—holding it, not throwing it. Colonel Norbank turned toward the rebel. His mouth dropped open. Surprise blossomed on his face.
Then the grenade exploded, erasing not just the look of surprise but the face as well.
Lon was on his way down to the ground when the blast sounded, his warning cut off. There were screams from civilians, farther off, and cries of pain from wounded closer in—Dirigenters and Norbanker militiamen … and from a few of the other prisoners as well.
As soon as the shock wave passed him, Lon was back on his feet, rifle up and moving forward, even though he still had no ammunition for the weapon. Scores of other mercenaries were also moving in, rifles covering the remaining prisoners, hurrying to see to their comrades as well.
• • •
It took time to sort through the confusion. The prisoner who had set off the grenade was dead, as were two of his comrades. So was Colonel Norbank. Two other militiamen and one Dirigenter also had died. A dozen people had wounds, most fairly minor; the dead had absorbed most of the shrapnel. The remaining prisoners were stripped to make certain that no one else had any lethal surprises. The civilians were ordered away. They went, most of them quiet.
The wounded were separated from the dead and treated. The surviving prisoners were marched off toward the edge of town. They had not been permitted to put their clothing back on.
Lon went toward where the man who had exploded the grenade lay, uncovered, his head, arms, and the upper part of his torso horribly mutilated. His hands had simply vanished.
Lon shook his head as he looked at the body. “How can anyone hate that hard?” he asked himself, unaware that he had spoken the question, or that anyone was near enough to hear.
“Some people don’t know any other way,” Tebba Girana said. “For guys like this, dying is the only way to stop.”
Epilogue
Autumn had settled in on Dirigent City by the time Second Battalion of Seventh Regiment returned from Norbank. Shuttles landed the men at the public spaceport late on a Tuesday morning. Buses were waiting to carry the returnees through the capital to the main entrance to the DMC’s home base.
Lon looked out the window of the coach, watching the people they passed. Few of the civilians gave the military vehicles more than a passing glance. Lon assumed that the men out there who did stop walking to stare were in the Corps themselves, or had been. Some brought themselves to attention.
When the caravan reached base, the Corps was waiting to welcome them. It took three buses to carry the dead of Second Battalion. Those passed in review first, followed by the rest of the battalion. The men of the Corps stood at attention. The officers saluted. Regimental flags were dipped to honor the men coming home.
Tomorrow would see another formation, this time just Seventh Regiment. Lon would stand before the entire regiment while Colonel Arnold Gaffney pinned the red enamel and gold pips of a lieutenant on his shoulders.
But first—tonight—Lon was going to town. He planned to drink until he could no longer remember the blood rite that had earned those diamond-shaped pips for him.
Don't miss LIEUTENANT, book two in the DMC series …
The temperature had finally fallen below one hundred degrees Fahrenheit, but the humidity remained near one hundred percent. There was not the slightest breath of wind to bring even modest relief. Lieutenant Lon Nolan had been perspiring heavily, but the sweat could not evaporate to cool him. All it did was soak his clothing and add to his discomfort. Just remaining motionless, resting, was tiring. The stagnant jungle air of New Bali was so thick with moisture that breathing was work. It was almost three o’clock in the morning. Company A, 2nd Battalion, 7th Regiment of the Dirigent Mercenary Corps was ready for action.
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