Andromeda's War (Legion of the Damned Book 3) (23 page)

The holo collapsed at that point, and the lights came back up. Ono was ready and waiting. “Well,” he said grimly. “There is one thing to be grateful for—and that is the fact that Her Highness is still alive.”

The statement was met with various expressions of enthusiastic agreement. Ono nodded in agreement. “During the last seven hours, the holo has been analyzed by experts from a number of different fields. They agree that the images you saw are genuine—and the facts as laid out by Empress Ophelia are consistent with what we know. With that in mind, here are the possible strategies we could pursue. First, we could agree to the Hudathan demands.”

That statement produced a chorus of “No’s,” “Never’s,” and an emphatic “Over my dead body” from an admiral.

Ono nodded. “I concur. The second option is to let the Hudathans kill Empress Ophelia.”

That possibility produced howls of protest, and Hanno was quick to add his voice to all the rest. Not because he thought the option was out of the question but in order to ensure his personal safety. There were fanatics in the room, and any sign of disloyalty could be punished.

Ono held up a hand. “I know, I know, all of us agree. But if the empress were here, she would insist that every possibility be examined. No matter how distasteful it might be.”

Hanno knew that was true. Had Ophelia’s recently deceased brother been in similar circumstances, he felt sure she would have allowed the poor bastard to “Sacrifice himself for the good of the empire.”

“We lack the means to attack Hudatha,” Ono continued. “And they would kill the empress if we did. So that leaves us with the third choice. We can stall. And there are some excellent reasons to do so. Some of you may have noticed the setting in which Empress Ophelia’s statement was recorded. It could have been anywhere, including on the surface of Savas. For all we know, the Hudathans are lying. Maybe they captured her, as they claim they did, but for some reason haven’t been able to move her. If so, there’s a chance that the special-operations team led by Major Remy will reach and free her.

“Secondly, a battle group consisting of eight ships left for the Savas system three days ago. That’s because the ship carrying Major Remy and his team detected the presence of Hudathan naval units in orbit around Savas just prior to going hyper. That’s consistent with what the empress said about being handed over to them. So if she’s still on the planet, and the task force arrives quickly enough, it may be possible to keep the Hudathans from moving her off-planet.”

The Minister of Agriculture was seated to Hanno’s right. Her hand shot up. “But what about the empress? If we destroy some of their ships, the Hudathans might kill her.”

Ono’s expression was grave. “That’s true . . . But we didn’t know a Hudathan message torpedo would arrive days after the battle group departed. Unfortunately, that’s the hand we were dealt—and that’s the one we’ll have to play.”

“What about the public?” the Minister of Public Information wanted to know. “Are we going to tell them?”

“No,” Ono said emphatically. “Not yet. So far as they know, the empress is still on her tour of the colonies. So unless someone leaks the information to the press, we’ll be able to keep the lid on for a while longer. And should a leak occur, I can assure you that the penalty will be quite severe.”

All of them knew what that meant. The person or persons who were responsible for the leak would be killed. The meeting ended shortly thereafter, and it was a very subdued crowd that filed out of the conference room and returned to their offices, most of which were located in the same building. Hanno was the exception since his headquarters were downtown. A statement of independence that Ophelia had been willing to tolerate in order to recruit what she believed to be the right man. And Hanno took comfort from that.

There were potential dangers, however. What if the Hudathans sent Ophelia’s head to Earth in a message torp? A power struggle was sure to ensue. And remote though the possibility might be, a person connected to one of Hanno’s victims might rise to power. What would happen to his carefully crafted kingdom then? And more importantly, to
him
?

Dark thoughts followed Hanno to his air car and accompanied him on the trip downtown. Some sort of backup plan was in order. A second identity on a rim world perhaps, complete with a nice place to live and a fat bank account. He could use his agency to create it. No, that was too obvious. And too dangerous. He would use a different channel.

Such were Hanno’s musings as the air car settled onto the top of the building that housed the Bureau of Missing Persons. The BMP’s administrative offices were located on the twenty-sixth floor. But the so-called crypt was down in the basement. That was the place where Earth-based sanctions could be monitored live and the computers were located.

Normally, Hanno began each day with a visit to the crypt so that his staff could brief him on current operations before he went upstairs. And Hanno saw no reason to vary his routine.

So he entered an elevator that carried him down to the basement. A pin code plus a thumbprint were required to exit the lift. Cool air flooded the car as the doors hissed open. Hanno stepped out into a small but tastefully furnished waiting room. The lighting was subdued, and abstract paintings graced the walls.

Beyond that, and placed so as to block entry to the hall beyond, sat a curved reception desk. Hanno frowned. The receptionist was a retired marine named Murdock, and he was nowhere to be seen. This was highly irregular, not to mention annoying, because Hanno had given strict instructions that the desk be manned at all times. If Murdock needed to take a pee, he was supposed to call for another employee to come out and sit in for him.

Hanno made his way over to the desk and circled around it. That was when he saw Murdock lying on the floor staring at the ceiling. There was a blue-edged bullet hole between his eyes, and judging from the bloodstain on his chest, he’d been shot there as well. A double tap. The sure sign of a professional.

Suddenly, there was an empty place where the bottom of Hanno’s stomach should have been. Where was the killer? In back? Hanno knelt next to the body, fumbled under Murdock’s blue blazer, and located his pistol. He removed the weapon and stood. A quick check served to confirm that there was a bullet in the chamber.

Should he call police? No, they weren’t cleared to enter the top secret facility. DIS then? Hanno remembered the way Forbes had smiled at him and felt a chill run down his spine. Was this
her
work? No, she wouldn’t dare! Or would she? Ophelia was being held for ransom and might never return . . . What if Forbes knew that
before
the meeting? And, as chief of the DIS, she probably had. If there would ever be a time for Forbes to strike, this was it.

Hanno entered the dimly lit hallway with the pistol extended in front of him. Small workrooms lined both sides of the corridor. Controllers used them to monitor field operations.

The first room on the left was empty and the equipment was dark. But, as Hanno stepped into the one on the right, he saw two brightly lit computer screens and Samantha Yang. Her body was slumped forward, and judging from the blood, she’d been shot in the back of the head. Hanno swore under his breath. Samantha was one of his favorites. A young woman slated for promotion. Now this.

He stepped out into the hall. Was the killer or killers still in the basement? Or had they left? Blood pounded in his head as he advanced. More horrors awaited him. Controller Mark Bowers had been shot in the chest and looked surprised.

Computer tech Reba Dann was sprawled facedown in the hallway. Hanno had to step over her body to enter the open area generally referred to as the tank. That was when he encountered the first sign of resistance. Crystal Kemp lay on her back with a small semiautomatic pistol lying inches from her dead fingertips. Her blond hair was fanned out behind her head, and the front of her white blouse was red with blood.

Then, as Hanno’s eyes came up, he saw the letters that had been spray-painted onto the wall. “FF.” The Freedom Front. Had the man called Colonel Red come back to life? No. Hanno sensed that this was the
second
part of Forbes’s plan. Having been unable to seize control of the BMP, she was going to destroy the organization and blame the slaughter on the Freedom Front. A strategy that would not only eliminate a competitor but further justify the need for her department! It was a brilliant plan. And Hanno knew that footage of the scene, supposedly shot by Freedom Front commandos, would soon appear on the net. Or maybe it was there already.

Hanno turned a full circle with weapon raised. But there were no targets to shoot at. The DIS agents had completed their mission and left. Then it occurred to him. If the DIS agents were gone, and he was there, Forbes would . . .

Hanno never got to complete the thought. Four carefully placed charges went off. Everything in the crypt was destroyed by a flash fire and buried under tons of rubble as the upper floors of the building collapsed. More than a hundred office workers were killed.

—

Forbes watched the whole thing from many miles away, made a note to eliminate the BMP personnel located on other planets, and went to lunch. All in all it had been a very successful morning.

There is, between lovers, an attraction more powerful than gravity itself.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN
A Dweller folk saying
Standard year circa 2349

PLANET SAVAS

Thanks to night-vision technology, the team could travel during the hours of darkness when it was cooler, and they were less likely to be seen by people on the ground. The Hudathans could see their heat signatures from the air, of course, if they were passing over and paying attention. But that was a chance the team had to take.

Now, having been on the move for more than six hours, the sun had broken company with the eastern horizon, and the temperature was about to rise. It would approach a hundred degrees by noon—so it was necessary to find a place where they could hole up. One that offered both protection from the sun and a source of water would be ideal.

Fortunately, their Jithi guides had traveled that way many times and knew the area well. And, according to Kambi, the ruins of an ancient city lay directly ahead. According to legend, the metropolis had been built on the banks of a river during a time when the equatorial jungle dominated the area. But eventually the desert sand moved south, the river dwindled to a stream, and the population declined. Finally, when the water withdrew below the surface, the once-thriving metropolis was reduced to a ghost town.

However, some water was still available thanks to an underground well. That was the good news. The bad news was that the ruins might be occupied by one of the Paguumi caravans that paused there from time to time. A small group wouldn’t be a problem. But the mission was to find and rescue Ophelia, not get into meaningless firefights, so Remy wanted to avoid a potentially costly battle if he could.

With that in mind, he sent Kambi and a squad of hats forward to reconnoiter. They searched the ruins, determined that they were empty, and radioed in. At that point, McKee’s platoon was sent forward to secure the area. She ordered Mo Hiller and his squad to circle wide and take up positions north of the ruins. Then McKee led the rest of them through what had probably been a well-fortified entrance back during the city’s heyday. Her thoughts went to Bindali Jivani. Had she been there, the anthropologist would have been fascinated by the ruins and eager to explore every nook and cranny. Most of the city had been reduced to little more than sand-drifted streets, waist-high adobe walls, and piles of rubble. But fragments of buildings remained—and who knew what lay buried below?

Kambi and the recon team came out to greet the newcomers. The Jithi pointed to what might have been a temple. “Stairs lead down into the lower level,” he explained. “It was hot, so more people lived belowground than above it. That’s where the well is.”

McKee ordered her people to establish a security perimeter by hooking up with Hiller’s squad. Once it was safe to do so, she gave the go-ahead for the rest of the company to enter the city. Then it was time to make the rounds. The key was to find shade and concealment for each person, while maintaining interlocking fields of fire, and paths that would allow them to fall back if necessary.

Once the task was complete, she went looking for Remy. A sand-drifted street led her back to what she thought of as the temple. That’s where Sergeant Major Hadley and some of his hats were busy unloading a RAV. “He’s down below,” Hadley said, as he pointed to some stairs. “Inspecting the well.”

McKee thanked him and followed the well-worn steps down into near darkness. The air was noticeably cooler, which was consistent with Kambi’s claim that the majority of the city’s residents had chosen to reside there.

The light from a distant glow stick served to guide McKee down a broad corridor to a circular chamber, where a number of other passageways met. Half a dozen legionnaires were gathered around the crude framework that straddled a hole in the ground. Remy turned as McKee arrived. “How did it go?”

“The ruins are defensible,” McKee replied. “Assuming that the digs don’t throw an army at us and the ridgeheads don’t attack from above.”

Remy grinned. “That’s a lot of ifs, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir. Perhaps you would like to walk the perimeter. I would value your opinion.”

“I’ll be up in a minute or two,” Remy replied. “We’re waiting for the first bucket of water to come up. If it’s potable, we’ll stay. If not, we’ll have a difficult decision to make. The next source of water is about twelve miles away.”

There was a squeaking sound as a legionnaire turned a crank. Hand-plaited rope wound onto a piece of wood as another soldier aimed a light down into the hole. McKee noticed that, while there was a sizable pile of trash about twenty feet away, the area immediately around the well was scrupulously clean. A cultural norm perhaps? Because all the locals depended on such wells? It was the type of question Jivani delighted in.

When the water appeared, it was in a large leather bucket complete with a hoselike arrangement at the bottom. Once opened, it would allow the contents to drain into smaller containers. The tube was controlled with a spring-loaded clamp. “My people made that,” Kambi said proudly, as Remy held a mug under the hose.

A legionnaire squeezed the clamp. Once the cup was full, Remy brought it up to his lips where he took a sip and was seen to swirl the liquid around his mouth. Then he spit the water onto the ground. “It’s brackish,” Remy declared, “but I’ve had worse. We’ll purify it and top off the canteens.”

By the time McKee and Remy were done touring the perimeter, the temperature was at least eighty degrees, and McKee was sweating. It felt good to duck into some shade and drink the cool well water.

Remy set the watches, and McKee wound up in charge of the third. That meant she was able to enjoy nearly five hours of sleep before returning to the surface. Once she arrived, Lieutenant Sokov could go off duty, and he reported that everything was fine. A single contrail had been seen an hour earlier, and that was all. Though less than threatening, it was a reminder that the Hudathans held the high ground. A sobering thought indeed.

The sun moved with what seemed like excruciating slowness as it arced across the sky before eventually sinking into the west. The air would start to cool in an hour or so. Then it would be time to roust those who were asleep, eat a meal, and leave. In the meantime, McKee kept busy by circling the perimeter while pausing occasionally to eyeball the horizon through her binoculars. And that’s what she was doing when Remy arrived. McKee heard movement and turned to look. She thought he looked tired, but all of them looked tired, and would until the mission was over. “Lieutenant.”

“Major.”

“I’ve got a job for you.”

The last thing McKee wanted was a shit detail—but there was only one thing she could say. “Yes, sir.”

“The signal continues to be strong, but we’re moving too slowly,” Remy said. “Maybe Ophelia is in hiding—or maybe the Paguumis have her. But what if the Hudathans get their mitts on her? They’ll take her off-planet and out of reach. So speed is of the essence, and while your cyborgs can run all day at thirty-miles an hour, my people can’t. And making a bad situation worse is the fact that we’re spending an hour a day looking for water.

“So to recover that time, and speed things up, I’m going to send you forward. Kambi will show you the way. Your job will be to find water and mark the location for us.”

McKee knew Remy was correct. Each day that passed made it less likely that they would find the empress alive. And while that was fine with her, the rest of them wouldn’t agree. “Yes, sir. I can act as a scout as well.”

“Exactly,” Remy responded. “But it’s important to keep radio communications to an absolute minimum. Otherwise, the Hudathans will use your transmissions to track us down.”

McKee nodded. “Yes, sir. Can I have three T-1s? One for me, one for Kambi, and one to carry supplies?”

“Yes,” Remy agreed. “And you can take C-3 with you as well. It will come in handy. Go out, secure the next two sources of water, and wait at the third. Good luck.”

McKee spent the next hour getting ready. She chose Nick Riley from the second squad to carry Kambi—and Peter Popov from the third to hump supplies. That left both of the squad leaders shorthanded, but it couldn’t be helped. As an extra precaution, McKee had shoulder launchers mounted on Popov. That would give the detachment at least some chance of defending themselves against an attack by Hudathan aircraft.

After handing the platoon off to Jolo, McKee followed C-3 out of the city, closely followed by Kambi on Riley and Popov in the three slot. According to Kambi, the next source of water was about twelve miles ahead, and McKee planned to get there quickly. Then, after reaching that goal, she hoped to arrive at the Oboli Oasis by dawn. It was sixteen miles beyond objective one. That meant they would have to cover twenty-eight miles in all. A difficult if not impossible goal for the hats—but a stroll in the park for her T-1s. Barring mechanical difficulties or a run-in with the Paguumis, that is.

As Bartov continued to increase speed, McKee looked over to see how Kambi was doing. Theoretically, all the Jithi had to do was to bend his knees, lean back, and relax. But like most beginners, the Jithi was holding on for dear life with knees locked. McKee smiled. He would learn.

The country that lay northeast of the ancient city consisted of dry riverbeds, scattered boulders, and occasional outcroppings of rock. As darkness fell, and McKee’s night-vision gear came on, her surroundings took on a ghastly green appearance. But she was used to that and welcomed the additional cover that nighttime gave her.

Low-power infrared communications were safe unless the ridgeheads were extremely close, so McKee could make occasional use of the squad freq. C-3 led the way, followed by the three cyborgs. They covered the twelve-mile trip in half an hour and would have arrived even sooner if it hadn’t been for the difficult terrain. Kambi was wearing a borrowed helmet and was using the night-vision technology without difficulty. “We must stop here,” Kambi said, as the group skidded down the side of a ravine and into the bottom of a gully.

“Okay,” McKee responded. “But where’s the water?”

“It is here,” Kambi insisted. “We must dig for it.”

After releasing their harnesses, McKee and Kambi dropped to the ground, where the legionnaire replaced the graspers that Bartov and Riley were wearing with shovel hands. Meanwhile, lest someone sneak up on them, C-3 and Popov were standing watch.

Once their shovel hands were locked in place, the T-1s began to dig. Given the fact that they were down in a ravine and out of sight, McKee thought it was safe to let the cyborgs use their headlamps. The resulting pool of light was focused on a patch of dry, rocky-looking soil. The ground was hard, which meant it was slow going at first. That was understandable. But after fifteen minutes of digging, the hole was still bone dry. “So where’s the water?” McKee wanted to know.

“It’s there,” Kambi insisted. “Sometimes it flows just below the surface and sometimes it’s farther down.”

Bartov and Riley had paused to watch the debate, and McKee put them back to work. “You heard him . . . Keep digging.” So dirt, gravel, and rocks continued to fly. Bit by bit the hole grew wider as well as deeper. Eventually, the borgs had to kneel in order to work. Then it became necessary to stand in the hole.

Six feet deep. That was as far as McKee was willing to go. That’s what she was thinking when Bartov spoke. “We’re in sand now . . . And it’s damp.”

“I told you so!” Kambi said triumphantly. “Keep going.”

The cyborgs obeyed, and gray water rose to fill the bottom of the hole thirty seconds later. “Well done,” McKee said. “Let’s make it bigger so the company won’t have to.”

That produced some grumbling, but the cyborgs continued to dig, and it wasn’t long before they had a small pond. McKee ordered C-3 to take pictures of the water hole and send it, plus the coordinates, to Remy via an encrypted “squirt” transmission. A signal so brief the Hudathans weren’t likely to notice it—and wouldn’t be able to trace it if they did.

Then McKee removed an eight-foot-by-eight-foot tarp from the gear that Popov was carrying. The plan had been to use it to provide shade once the sun came up, but it would have to serve a different purpose now. Kambi helped her spread the sheet of plastic over the well and anchor the corners with rocks. Thanks to the desert camo pattern printed on the tarp it would be very difficult to see—and McKee sprinkled sand over the cover in hopes of disguising it further.

The process of digging the hole had consumed more than an hour. But McKee thought they could still reach the Oboli Oasis before dawn and was determined to try. So with C-3 in the lead, they set off in a northwesterly direction. Broken ground gradually gave way to hardpan and desert. That meant the legionnaires could travel faster, but it also meant that they were exposed.

Finally, as the sky began to lighten in the east, McKee called a halt near an outcropping of rock. They’d been lucky so far. But wells were like magnets. And the very fact that the Oboli Oasis had a name was a good indicator of how important it was.

Assuming Kambi’s estimate was correct, their destination was about a mile away, and if a large group of Paguumis was present, McKee figured they would post pickets halfway out. That opened the possibility that they could blunder into a sentry and trigger a firefight. In order to avoid that, McKee ordered C-3 to stay high,
very
high, and check the place out.

As the drone departed, McKee opened her visor in order to take a bite of a dust-dry energy bar. Then she had to close it again to see the HUD and monitor C-3’s progress. The drone was in the thermal-imaging mode and cruising along at two hundred feet. That was lower than she would have liked but close to the machine’s maximum ceiling.

There wasn’t much to see at first. Just patches of cooler ground and rocks that still retained some warmth. Then, as McKee swallowed a bite, she saw what looked like a thick carpet of undulating heat. What the hell was it?

“Switch to image enhancement,” she ordered, and C-3 obeyed. Suddenly, McKee found herself looking down on a large herd of animals. Were these the kudu she’d heard about? That seemed likely. And the guess was confirmed when she saw a warrior mounted on a huge quadruped. “Pull back,” McKee said urgently, “and stay high.”