By Blood Alone (20 page)

Reports that Fort Mosby had fallen were false. The reason was clear, to Harco if no one else. Booly and he had been members of the same class, had cocaptained the rowing team, and had been posted to a godforsaken rim world. A crudball named Drang, where they had battled the frogs and every form of jungle rot known to man.

The simple fact was that Harco
knew
Booly and knew what the other man could do. Booly wanted the fort to stand, so it did. General Loy was laughing in his grave.

Perhaps the recruiters should have approached the other officer and tried to bring him over, not that they would have succeeded. Booly was too straight for that, too willing to buy the Confederate lies, while the Legion continued to disintegrate.

The corporal took a turn, and Harco followed. The GOC was still under construction for all practical purposes. Wherever the officer looked he saw boxes of equipment, reels of cable, and hard-working droids.

The noncom paused before a heavily secured door, looked into a scanner, and waited while the device lased her retinas. Harco did likewise. The door whined open. A lieutenant was waiting to greet them. Hair hung over his collar, there was a food stain on the front of his shirt, and a paunch hid his belt buckle. He greeted Harco with a hearty “Hi ya!” followed by a wink and a nod.

Harco sighed. The planetary militia came under Governor Pardo, and, in an effort to limit the extent of his power, the politician had been careful to keep it that way. He could chew on the officer all day and it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference. The corporal intervened. “Right this way, sir. The room needs some work... but the gear works fine.”

Harco followed the noncom into a dimly lit room. Racks of equipment lined one wall, cables converged on an oversized black chair, and test patterns flickered across overhead screens.

A businesslike tech appeared and pointed toward the chair. “Have a seat, Colonel. The mission has started. Assault Team Victor is on the way.”

Harco sat in the chair and allowed them to strap him in. A helmet was lowered onto his head, a thirty-second refresher course played on the inside surface of the faceplate, and the tech spoke over the intercom.

“There are thirty-three aircraft, sir. Twelve transports and twenty-one fighters. No oppo yet, but psyops estimates that half the Navy are loyalist sympathizers—which means they might come out to play. You have full scan with command override. Questions?”

“Just two,” Harco replied. “Who’s in command? And do they know I’m along?”

“The airdales are under the command of Squadron Leader Beason, sir. Companies A, B and D were supplied by the 5th RMP under the overall command of Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Lo. Both officers were informed of the ride.”

Harco nodded, remembered the helmet, and said, “Thank you.” The ability to “see” what his line troops saw was a tool that he’d hate to go without. Some commanders “rode” their troops too often, however—a habit that destroyed trust, sapped initiative, and bred timidity. Even worse was the sort of officer who conducted observations in secret—leaving his or her subordinates to wonder when and if they were under surveillance.

Harco hadn’t met Beason, but Lo was one of the best. He didn’t envy her assignment, however. Booly would have plenty of warning, and his troops would be ready.

The visor came to life; Harco found himself flying a transport and listening to a dirty joke. It was dark beyond the glow of the instrument panel. His chair shuddered slightly as the aircraft hit some chop. The combat team was thirty minutes out and closing fast.

The punch line arrived. Harco laughed, and his worries melted away.
This
was his,
this
made sense,
this
was pure.

 

The sun had yet to rise over the Gulf of Aden, but a long, pink line marked the horizon, and the direction from which the attack would come. Straight out of the sun—an old trick that wouldn’t provide much of an advantage but was still worth a try.

The view to the north looked across the avenue Maréchal Foch to more blue water.

The Plage de la Siesta curved to the south.

Booly, who usually began his day with a stroll along the battlements, was careful to do so now. He could feel the legionnaires watching, gauging the set of his shoulders, passing the word to their friends: “Ya shoulda seen him! Like a pimp on a stroll... Not jumpy like some I could mention.”

Booly paused for a moment. The morning air carried a hint of brine, not to mention Djibouti’s ever present stench. Most of the city had been evacuated the better part of a week before. Captain Kara had taken charge of that and done an excellent job. The mayor of Djibouti was an elderly man named Makonen. He liked to talk and made an interesting contrast to the quiet, nearly morose legionnaire. Not that it mattered. The civilians were as safe as Booly could make them—and that was the important thing.

Booly allowed his arms to rest on the top of the wall. The days were longer, but Djibouti was not that much different from the village where he had been born and his parents still lived. They had appeared to him in a dream the night before. His mother spoke slowly, as if trying to communicate from a long way off, but it didn’t work. The words were impossible to understand.

Still, there was no mistaking the love in her eyes, or the way that his father waved. The whole thing left Booly feeling strange—as if part of him were missing. He pushed the emotion away.

He heard a footfall and turned. Captain Winters nodded as she topped the stairs. The full combat rig made her look larger than she really was. In s
pite of the fact that Major Judd had emerged from the mutiny unscathed, he wasn’t very effective, and the operations officer had taken up the slack. Booly smiled. “Good morning, Captain. Should be a nice day.”

Winters smiled cynically. “If you say so, sir. Personally, I kind of doubt it.”

Booly laughed. “The muties will get their licks in, no doubt about that, but the fort will stand. Those transports can carry two, maybe three companies of troops, along with some Trooper IIs or Ills. Not nearly enough to get the job done.
They
know it, and
we
know it.”

Winters agreed. She nodded. “Sir. Yes, sir.”

Booly glanced around. The nearest legionnaire was twenty feet away. “Which isn’t to say that I wouldn’t mind some help.... How ’bout the swabbies? Any sign of air cover?”

Winters shook her head. “No, sir. It seems like some of the vessels were taken and some weren’t. Their entire chain of command is screwed up. And, just to make things worse, new ships arrive every day. Some remain loyal, some go over, and some run like hell. Two different captains claim to be in charge. Neither has agreed to help.”

“Okay,” Booly acknowledged, “stay on it. The SAMs will nail some of the bastards but not all of them.”

A voice spoke through their earplugs. It belonged to Sergeant Ho. She was terse. The battle had already begun, so far as she and her staff were concerned. They could see the bastards on radar,
hear
the ECM, and
smell
their own sweat. The Situation Room was sealed against everything imaginable, including the fort’s own hyperefficient air-conditioning system. Enjoyable during normal times—but a potential pipeline for chemical and biological agents.

“We have bandits three-three... fifteen minutes and closing. Two-one, repeat two-one fast movers. One-five on the deck, elevation four hundred feet, with six on top. Over.”

Booly looked toward the east, gestured to the nearest sentries, and followed them down. “Roger that. Pass the word. Fire when the SAMs lock.”

This is the moment, Booly thought to himself. This is the moment the rebel cadre would strike if any of them had survived. But nothing happened, nothing that wasn’t
supposed
to happen, which was fine with Booly.

The initial part of Booly’s plan was simple: launch his SAMs, destroy as many enemy aircraft he could, and go to ground.

In spite of its somewhat anachronistic appearance, Fort Mosby had been designed to withstand a full-scale orbital bombardment by the alien Hudatha
. That being the case, the structure had a theoretical rating of T-1 ... which meant the center of the complex could withstand a direct hit from a tactical nuke.

Of course the muties wouldn’t be dropping any nukes, not yet anyway, but Booly and his troops could expect to be on the receiving end of thousand-pound laser-guided smart bombs, air-to-surface missiles (ASMs), and subsurface torpedos (SSTs). None of which would be any fun.

The klaxon went off as Booly checked one more time. “One-One to One-Three. Anything from on high? Over.”

Winters checked the last legionnaire through the northern-most door. “Negative, One-One. Over.”

Booly swore off-mike, heard SAMs roar into the air, and saw contrails arc across the sky. The launchers were up to fifty miles away—all linked by radio
and
subterranean cable.

The officer knew that the devices had lowered themselves into their underground bays by now. Once they were below the surface, blastproof doors would protect them from attack, and, given the fact that their robotic radars were not only small but airborne, they’d be difficult if not impossible to target and hit.

“Sir! Over here!”

Ex-corporal and now Sergeant Fykes had assigned himself to his commanding officer’s staff, where he had assumed responsibility for Booly’s personal security. He stood in an open hatch.

Booly took one last look around, slid past the foot-thick door, and heard it thud into place.

The officer’s security detail consisted of Fykes plus two of Nightslip’s scouts. The Naa were heavily armed and extremely alert. Fearing another mutiny, the noncom had requested a full squad. Booly had refused on the grounds that six guards plus a noncom was not only a waste of precious manpower but more than a little unseemly.

Fykes knew the assault force was close and took issue with the way that Booly continued to risk himself. “’Bout time, sir. No sense getting your ass blown off this early in the battle.”

The Naa fought to conceal their grins. Booly was about to take Fykes down a notch when a satellite-guided missile hit the center of the parade ground. The explosion shook the walls. The first blow had been struck.

 

The
Gladiator’s
bridge looked neat and orderly, even if some of the bloodstains had proven difficult to remove.

Naval Captain Angie Tyspin was furious. Rear Admiral Nathan Pratt, with the emphasis on “Rear,” had dropped out of hyper six hours before, was still more than twelve hours out, and claimed to be in command. Hard, angular lines defined the shape of his face, and the expression was venomous. The holo shivered, then snapped into focus. “While your desire to support loyalist forces is commendable, Captain, it may or may not be in line with overall strategy.”

“And which strategy would that be?” Tyspin demanded. “There is no frigging strategy! Half the ships in orbit are controlled by mutineers, and my so-called peers spend most of their time squabbling over who has precedence. The people on the ground need our help, and they need it
now
. The rebels control most of the planet—why hand over the rest?”

Pratt leaned so far forward that his eyes seemed to fill the holo tank. “You’ve been under a considerable strain, Captain, which is the only reason that I choose to ignore the tone of your comments
and
the absence of military courtesy. Here are my orders. Ignore them at your peril. You will take
all
necessary steps to preserve your vessel. You will use your fighters to protect your ship and for no other purpose. I hope I made myself clear. Questions?”

Tyspin struggled to control her voice. “Sir! Yes, sir! One question, sir!”

Pratt allowed himself to lean back. Dominance had been established. He could afford to indulge her. “Yes? And what would that be?”

Tyspin smiled grimly. “Were you
born
an asshole? Or did you take classes?”

The admiral’s eyeballs bulged, his mouth opened, and he sucked air. His comments, whatever they might have been, were lost when Tyspin terminated the transmission.

Chief Gryco shook his head sadly. “He’s gonna be pissed, Captain.
Real
pissed.”

“Yeah,” Tyspin replied, already sorry for what she’d done. “I think you’re right. That last part was over the line. Way over the line.”

“So, what are you going to do?” Lieutenant Rawlings asked, her eyes big and round.

Tyspin stood and smiled. “You heard the admiral, Lieutenant. I have orders to protect the ship. What if one of those mutie missiles goes haywire and heads into space? The ship would be in danger.”

Gryco shook his head. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but that’s the lamest excuse I ever heard. Pratt will use your head for a paperweight.”

“Maybe,” Tyspin admitted, “but I really don’t have much choice, do I?”

The petty officer was silent for a moment and shook his head. “No, ma’am. I guess you don’t.”

“Right,” Tyspin said crisply. “Notify the flight deck. I want six Daggers ten from now. The rest will remain with the ship.”

Rawlings came to attention. “Ma’am! The lieutenant is flight-ready and Dagger-rated. Request permission to join.”

Tyspin eyed the officer and shook her head. “Sorry, Rawlings, permission denied. Pratt may not understand the full extent of the situation... but he’s right about one thing: The
Gladiator
comes first. You’re the only watch officer I have left. Keep her safe till I get back.”

Tyspin left the bridge, and Rawlings watched her go. “She’s one of a kind, Chief.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gryco agreed. “She sure as hell is.”

 

Harco saw the faint blur of the African coastline, heard the tone, and felt his chair tilt to the right. The pilot was calm but grim. “Missile lock. Fire chaff—fire flares.”