Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (45 page)

The deserter had just emerged when a weight dropped on him from above and threw him facedown in the dirt. The Naa felt someone pull his pistol out of its holster and gave thanks when they failed to appropriate the knife. The weight disappeared, allowing him to push the ground away. “Hey,” Knifethrow objected, as he came to his feet and turned toward his attacker. “Take it easy! I was captured! Damn, its good to see . . .”

“Thanks,” Santana interrupted calmly. “It's good to see you, too. Where's Kuga-Ka?”

The Naa raised his hands as if to surrender. That put them very close to the knife that was hilt up at the nape of his neck. “The gunny? Hell, he's . . .”

The renegade was fast,
very
fast, but Santana saw his hand move and fired. As the bullet struck his body armor, Knifethrow staggered, pulled the knife, and was about to throw it, when a second slug ripped through his throat. The Naa clutched at the wound, tried to stop the bleeding, and failed. He said something in his own language, frowned, and collapsed.

“Bravo Three Six to Bravo Six,” Dietrich said via the company push. “The heavies are here. Over.”

And Santana realized that the quads
were
there as one of the huge machines put a foot through the structure on his left, and fired its main gun. The cavalry had arrived.

 

Five miles to the north Kobbi and his staff sweltered in the command quad as fans whirred, com sets burped reports, and data scrolled across screens. The cone-shaped mountain was clear to see now, as was the shuttle that lifted out of the crater within. They watched the spacecraft turn on its own axis, fire chaff in an effort to distract the missiles that lashed up at it, and speed away. The transport, plus the markings it wore, served as a sure sign that a task force had arrived off Savas and was in the process of recovering the hypercom. Kobbi shook his head regretfully as the sh
uttle entered a steep climb, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

“It looks like more bugs are coming out to play,” the battalion's intel officer commented, as the staff switched their attention to a video provided by the battalion's sole surviving RPV. The drone was flying at its operational ceiling, zigzagging on a random basis, and using electronic countermeasures to avoid ground fire. It was only a matter of time before a missile brought the little aircraft down, but it was nice to have
the shot for as long as it lasted. The aerial view showed Hagala Nor, the landing pad located at the bottom of the volcano's crater, and tiny spurts of dust as black
specks emerged from protective tunnels to venture out onto the plain beyond. “The tanks located to the rear were the anvil,” Kobbi observed, “and here comes the hammer.”

Major Matala saw that the jacker was correct as the RPV zoomed in to provide its audience with some additional magnification. At least two dozen tanks had emerged from the mountain onto the plain below. There were smaller targets, too, including some speedy ground effect vehicles that could inflict quite a bit of damage if they were able to close with the quads. Assuming that the T-2s would be kept busy dealing with the lesser vehicles, it looked as if the quads would be outnumbered two to one. Not a pleasant prospect, but now that a fresh batch of Ramanthian ships had dropped into
orbit, there wasn't any choice.

Orders went out, and the quads formed a staggered line abreast. A formation that would enable all of them to engage the enemy at once, minimize the chance of firing on each other, and force the enemy to deal with the entire line rather than concentrating their fire on a few cyborgs.

Dontha watched from a position high on the extinct volcano's rim as his tanks opened fire. There was a bloodcurdling shriek as the rounds arced through the air, followed by flashes of light as they exploded, and a series of dull
crumps
. Columns of earth shot up into the air, and the first quadrupeds to enter the killing zone walked through the falling debris apparently untouched. Then a fifty-ton cyborg vanished in a clap of thunder as a smart shell corrected its glide path, struck the quad's hull, and detonated the missiles loaded onto its racks.

Meanwhile, as salvos of surface-to-surface missiles flew back and forth, a seemingly impenetrable matrix of computer-directed energy beams reached up to intercept them. Many
exploded prematurely and rained hot metal onto the battlefield below, but a few made it through. Ramanthian tanks erupted in flame, weapons vanished in puffs of dirt and smoke, and thunder rolled across the land.

There was a series of loud cracking sounds, and the ground shook, as a clutch of missiles hit the antenna array three hundred units to Dontha's right. The explosions were not only loud but somewhat unnerving. The Ramanthian refused to flinch, hoped that the officers grouped behind him would emulate his example, and thereby steady the troops.

Now, as both groups started to close with each other, the advantage seemed to shift slightly as packs of the smaller two-legged cyborgs joined their larger cousins and attacked the Ramanthian tanks as teams.

Dontha watched in amazement as a quad lost a limb to a missile but continued to drag itself forward while a pack of T-2s guarded its flanks. The larger cyborg fired, a tank blossomed into a red-orange flower, and jerked spasmodically as the ammo stored inside its hull cooked off.

But then, just when it looked as if the scales were tipping toward the Legion, help arrived from on high. Contrails clawed the clear blue sky as two flights of Ramanthian fighters entered the atmosphere, fell on the Confederacy fly-forms like birds of prey, and immediately sent two of them spiraling into the ground. In the meantime, those aircraft not engaged in the aerial dogfight were free to skim the surface of the battlefield and fire their missiles at the Legion's quads before circling around to make another pass.

The airwaves crackled with static as the cyborgs used electronic countermeasures to confuse the incoming weapons, and launched surface-to-air missiles, but the damage had been done. A fighter belched black smok
e and vanished behind Hagala Nor, but that didn't make up for the loss of two additional quads, and Kobbi had no choice but to order a retreat. It was an orderly withdrawal, with designated quads
serving as antiaircraft batteries while others worked to suppress enemy tank fire. In the meantime, rescue units dashed in to pull brain boxes, salvage-damaged T-2s, and pick up stranded bio bods.

Both sides had taken heavy casualties, but Dontha was gratified to see that only half of the cyborgs that had lumbered into the battle continued to be operable as the engagement came to a close. The Ramanthian's only regret was the fact that the fighters had to hold nearly half their fuel in reserve in order to reach orbit. That meant they couldn't linger and inflict even more casualties. Still, the engagement had been successful, and Dontha could return to his command center secure in the knowledge that the Pincer of Steel remained undefeated.

The cruiser's bridge was large and spacious. The command crew sat in a broad semicircle facing the bow. Captain Marta Wells, their commanding officer, occupied a raised platform directly behind them. Commodore Marvin Posson and Teeg Jackson were seated in two of the six seats that curved along the rear bulkhead. The atmosphere was thick with tension, and all eyes were riveted to the screens that tiled the forward bulkhead. The Confederacy task force had been in hyperspace for more than a week by then, and as Posson's ships prepared to enter the Savas system, the ranking naval officer wished
that he could forever hide the vessels rather than expose them to the dangers that probably lay ahead.

Commodore was a temporary rank, one that would probably be taken from him once the mission was over, but the responsibility was real enough. Posson's task force included a new world-class cruiser, two destroyers so old that his mother had served in one of them, and a couple of
Chien-Chu Enterprise–supplied transports that had formerly been slated for the scrap yards.

But old though most of his ships were, every single one of them was crewed by living, thinking, feeling beings, any or all of whom might be killed as the result of decisions that
he
made. That's why Posson wished he could somehow delay the moment when everything was at risk, the responsibility for hundreds of lives fell on him, and there was no going back. But he'd been chosen to lead the task force because he'd been to Savas, because he had a relationship with Teeg Jackson, and because the navy was short of qualified officers. Why else would they choose someone who had been p
assed over for promotion twice?
Because I'm expendable,
Posson thought to himself, and grinned.

Wells had black hair, which she parted up the middle. It fell in two wings, each marked by matching streaks of white, and swung freely as she turned to look over her shoulder. “All right . . . Mr. Jackson's decoys should have entered the system some eight hours ago . . . Plenty of time to pull any Ramanthian naval units in the vicinity away from Savas.”

“They aren't
my
decoys,” Jackson said defensively. “The idea was mine, but if something goes wrong with the electronics, that's the navy's fault.”

“So noted,” Wells replied darkly, “realizing that you're still going to die along with the rest of us if they don't work.” There was no love lost between the two, and a smile tugged at the corners of Posson's mouth as the captain turned her back to Jackson.

Wells focused on the screens in front of her and dug her fingernails into the padding of the chair's armrests.
Worber's World
had barely returned from her shakedown cruise when she was given her first mission and designated as Posson's flagship. There were technical bugs to work out, the crew hadn't had time to gel, and the commodore had never been
responsible for a group of ships before. Throw in a surly smuggler, plus the possibility of some bloodthirsty Ramanthians, and there were plenty of things for the naval officer to worry about. She felt the familiar lurch, knew her
ship had entered the contested zone, and kept her eyes glued to the screens. The entire bridge crew held their collective breaths as the ship made the transition from one reality to the next, data began to flood the screens, and their brains raced to interpret it.

“There are the decoys!” someone exclaimed.

“And there are the bugs,” Wells added thankfully. “Clear on the other side of the system from where we are! Congratulations, Mr. Jackson—your plan was a success.”

Posson looked for the rest of his task force on the screens, saw that all of them were present, and gave silent thanks. “Well done. Signal the task force to form on
Worber's World
and call for maximum speed. I intend to have control Savas, plus any ships that happen to be in orbit, by the time the Ramanthians return.

“And Captain Wells . . .”

The officer looked back over her shoulder. “Sir?”

“Tell the com section to try to contact Colonel Kobbi. I imagine he'll be happy to hear from us.”

For some reason there hadn't been any further air attacks on the battalion, and Kobbi was determined to take advantage of that fact. The colonel knew that his troops were exhausted and that the volcano would be a bitch to take, but he couldn't afford to wait the bugs out. First, because the Ramanthian fighters could return at any moment. Second, because Kobbi was pretty sure that a goodly portion of the hypercom had already been removed from the crater, and
third, because it went against the jacker's nature to sit around and wait for things to happen.

Kobbi's T-2 had been specially modified so he could stand a little taller and see a little better. He took advantage of the additional height to examine the formation arrayed to either side of him. By rotating the cyborgs that had previously been at the rear of the formation to the front, the pugnacious officer had put a new edge to his blade. Farther back, trailing along as best they could, veterans of the first assault could be seen. Included among them was the three-legged quad now known as “Hopalong,” a one-armed T-2, and half a dozen other units that were damaged but still capable o
f fighting.

Behind them, armed with whatever Calvo and her techs had been able to cobble together, were all of the battalion's support quads. Some carried civilians who had volunteered to fight as infantry. It was a ragtag force, but it was all he had, and that would have to do. Kobbi stood on tiptoes in the hopes that at least some of the legionnaires could see him. “This is Nomad Six . . . There's only one way off this piece of shit—and that's through the frigging bugs! Battalionnnn, charge!”

Santana saw Kobbi's T-2 lurch toward Hagala Nor and shouted over the company push. “You heard the colonel! Let's get the bastards!”

Other officers did likewise, and the entire battalion seemed to leap forward. The Ramanthians were waiting for them and unleashed every bit of firepower they had. A Ramanthian tank fired on a quad, scored a direct hit, and the cyborg exploded.

But even as pieces of the quad tumbled out of the sky, Santana led a platoon of T-2s against the tank and circled it. Fareye's borg carried the Naa in close, the warrior tossed a demolition pack under the monster's belly, and barely managed to get clear before the charge went off. Santana heard a
dull
whump!
followed by a horrible screeching sound as the beetle-shaped vehicle turned a full circle.