Starfist: Hangfire (27 page)

"Okay," the figure said at last, "I really don't care what you're doing here. I have a request of you, that's all. Will you listen to me? If you won't help, that's all right too. You'll be free to return to Placetas and I won't bother you again. Deal?"

"Do we have a choice?" Dean asked.

"Just hear me out and then I'll take you back to the city." Pasquin nodded. Quickly, the figure stepped over to the row of boxes and pulled one out. It was heavy and he dragged it with difficulty over to where the Marines sat. He ripped the lid off and threw it onto the floor, where it clattered noisily. With a knife he took out of a pocket, he sliced open the foil wrapping of a package inside and peeled it back.

The three leaned forward to see what was inside. Dean emitted a low whistle of surprise. "Am I dreaming or are those M-1A semiautomatic miniaturized oxyhydrogen plasma shooters?"

"Blasters!" Claypoole exclaimed. He reached inside and pulled out a disassembled stock and receiver.

"Where in the name of Mohammed's dirty fingernails did you ever get these?" Pasquin asked. "It's against every law on the books for anyone but legitimate military and police forces to have these!"

O'Mol snorted derisively. "Corporal, you are on Havanagas. If you have money, you can get anything you want here. I have money. There are six of these in there, each with four power packs, sixteen hundred rounds per weapon. I need someone to teach us how to use them."

The three began pulling out the disassembled weapons. "Oh, jeez, I am beginning to feel like a Marine again!" Pasquin sighed as he pulled the wrapping off a blaster and fished around in the crate for the barrel and sighting mechanism.

"Gentlemen, I will pay you well to teach us how to use and maintain these weapons. I'll give you more than enough to pay for your stay here on Havanagas, plus set you up when you get back home. With these six weapons I'll have enough firepower to make myself heard on this planet. I'll have a fighting chance to clean this mess up."

"So you're going to go after the mob?"

"Yes."

"I'll drink to that," Dean said "You know, there are instruction manuals in here. You don't need us to learn how to use these weapons."

"Yes, I do. The manuals will tell us how to assemble and disassemble them, how to maintain them and how to clean and store them, but they won't tell us how to shoot. That's what Marines do."

"You sure got that right," Claypoole muttered.

"Look," O'Mol said, "it'll only take a couple of days to get us off to a good start, and after that you're free to go."

"Oh, yeah, and the mob finds out we're working for you and I know where we'll ‘go’—to hell in a hand basket," Claypoole responded.

"I'll put you up here and I'll get you off-world. I can do that."

"If we do this for you, I want Katie Wells to go with us, mister," Claypoole announced, standing up.

"What the—" Pasquin shouted.

"Rock!" Dean exclaimed.

Claypoole shook his head stubbornly. "If we work for this guy, I want Katie to go with us when we leave. I'll work for you for free if you'll do that for me, sir," he said.

"I'll pay you and I'll get the girl out for you too, Mister Claypoole. What do you others say?"

Pasquin moved close to Claypoole and put his nose right into his face. "Lance Corporal, we have a job to do and we are going to do it! You hear me? We are gonna do that job and I don't want to hear any more of this shit from you, understand?" He turned to O'Mol. "No, we can't help you. Now we want to go back to Placetas, if you please."

Dean flexed his fingers nervously, looking from Claypoole to Pasquin. "He's right, Rock," he whispered. "I wish you success fighting the families, sir, but Marines follow orders and we have our orders." He started to put the weapons back into their crate.

"Hold on!" Claypoole shouted. "It won't take three of us to do what we came here for! I'm staying!

You guys can carry on without me."

"Claypoole, you are deserting in the face of the enemy. Do you know what the Corps will do to you when you get back to 'Finni's World? Do you?" Pasquin had stepped back a pace and stood facing Claypoole with his fists on his hips.

"This not a military mission!" Claypoole shouted. "We get every shit detail in the universe and we're supposed to lap it up and grin, right? Orders, orders, orders; cover down, dress right, dress, hup, toop, threep, fo? Well, this time Lance Corporal Claypoole, R, CMC 2130242L, is gonna do what he wants!

I don't care! I'm staying." He paused and stood there breathing heavily. "Fellas, listen to me, okay? I'm not giving this girl up to these fucks. You know what they told us, once you work for the mob you're theirs forever. Here's a woman who could go places but she'll just be a whore forever unless I do this for her. Look," he was pleading now, "ever since Maggie—"

"Okay, okay, Rock, we get the picture," Pasquin said sarcastically, "you get a little pussy and you flip your buddies the bird. You get a little screw and you bring it back to the barracks and give the rest of us a screwing, is that it? You worthless goddamned civilian!" Pasquin spit the word out, and it echoed around the warehouse.

"Now listen here, you goddamned candy-assed pogue!" Claypoole shouted back.

Quickly Dean stepped between them. He remembered all too well the fight he'd had with Claypoole back on Wanderjahr over Hway Keutgens, and he could see another one coming on now.

"Stop! Stop! Wait a second!" O'Mol held up his hand. "Listen! Listen!" From far away came a metallic whooshing sound.

The door at the far end of the building slammed open with a crash and a man came running in. "They're coming! We've been made, Olwyn! Get to the boat!"

"Wait! Wait! How many, how far away are they?" O'Mol asked. He didn't have to ask who was coming.

The man ran up to the little group, panting, his hair plastered to his head with rainwater. In one hand he clutched a big pistol of some kind. "They're at the house! Lots of the Ferris men! They came in three ships at least." From outside they could hear the sound of gunfire and explosions. "They don't know you're in here, Olwyn, but they'll be on us any minute! They had to have seen me running this way!"

"Oh, that's just fucking peachy," Pasquin said as he began assembling one of the blasters. "Marines, you know what to do."

"Hoooheee!" Claypoole sang. "We're Marines again!"

"We can assemble these weapons in thirty seconds—in the dark," Dean informed O'Mol, "but in here, well..." He stood up, a fully assembled blaster at port arms, a power pack inserted securely in the magazine well.

The rain had let up for now and they could clearly hear men shouting from somewhere outside.

"I have a hydrofoil at the river," O'Mol said. "We'll make a break through the backdoor, it opens onto the riverbank. If you Marines'll hold these goons off for a few minutes, I'll get her started and we can make it to the open sea, we'll be safe."

"You damned sure better be waiting there for us, mister," Pasquin muttered as he jammed power packs into his pockets. "Dean, you cover the inside here. If anyone comes in through that door, you know what to do. Rock, come with me. We'll cover the approaches from either side of the building." He grinned fiercely. "We got a big surprise for these bastards!"

"Not so fast!" the messenger said, stepping back a few paces, his pistol leveled at O'Mol.

Pasquin shot him from the hip. A plasma bolt punched a hole through his chest. The stench of burnt flesh filled the air as the man toppled. Pasquin coughed. "You never know who to trust, do you?" he said to O'Mol. "Okay, Marines, let's get a move on."

O'Mol picked up the carton with the remaining three blasters in it and ran for the door.

Dean lay on his stomach just inside the rear door, the muzzle of his blaster trained on the entrance at the opposite end of the building. From outside came the hiss-crack! of Pasquin's and Claypoole's weapons. Dean smiled. Goddamn, we're a team! he thought. The door he was covering burst open suddenly. Dean fired three rapid shots through the open door. Instead of the thuds of falling bodies, he heard the excited shouts of men who found themselves up against an unexpected weapon. He fired several shots as fast as he could at the wall to the side of the door and slagged a hole through the metal.

Outside, it was raining again. A small group of men was milling around, shouting and beating at their clothing where molten metal had set it afire. Dean shot into them, one, two, three quick shots. Three of the men spun and dropped, with charred holes where they'd been hit. The others ran, screaming. The only emotion Dean felt as he watched them burn to death was satisfaction. This undercover shit was for the birds, but combat—he could handle that!

"Dean! Come on, we're leaving!" It was Claypoole.

Dean got up and dodged out the backdoor. About a kilometer away stood what looked like a farmhouse. Three huge jet-powered aircraft sat around the structure, their engines running. A large number of little black figures were dashing up to them and climbing on board. Off to the left in a field of grass he saw the unmoving bodies of men that Claypoole had killed.

"Come on!" O'Mol shouted from the hydrofoil docked at a small wharf on the riverbank fifty meters below the warehouse.

"Not yet! Raoul!" Dean shouted. Pasquin ran up to him from his firing position, a fierce grin on his face. He gave them high fives all around. "No, Raoul, we can't leave until we've taken out those aircraft!"

As Dean spoke the first one lifted off.

"Oh, shit, Marines, taking on enemy aircraft in the open! That's great tactics!" Claypoole shouted, but he went to one knee and took steady aim at the cockpit of the lead jet. It skimmed slowly over the grass, coming on steady and level. It was a great shot and Claypoole took it. His bolt flashed on the bubble of the cockpit and the machine skittered crazily to one side, out of control, and nosed into a field of crops, where it exploded into an enormous fireball. They could feel the concussion of the explosion and the heat of the burning fuel where they stood.

The other two pilots, seeing the fate of their partner, veered sharply left and right and came on quickly from the flanks. Suddenly, the air around the Marines cracked and hissed with the deadly noise of supersonic projectiles; bullets smacked and whacked into the metal roof and walls of the warehouse.

"Do something and do it quick!" O'Mol shouted from the riverbank.

Pasquin fired from the offhand position, using the corner of the building to brace himself He snapped off three quick shots at the aircraft approaching from his side. They all missed. He cursed, went to one knee and fired again. The jet exploded in a massive flash of fuel, parts, and bodies. Dean's first round at the remaining jet hit it in the tail section, and smoke began to pour out of it. The pilot climbed rapidly to gain altitude and get out of range. At about three hundred meters the jet suddenly went totally vertical, its nose pointing straight up in the air, engines screaming, and just hung there for a full ten seconds as the pilot tried desperately to level off. The Marines held their fire, watching, fascinated. Little black figures leaped out its open passenger doors and plummeted to earth, making great splashes as they plunged into the wet fields. Slowly, gracefully, the machine rolled over on its back and fell screaming into the earth, ending its flight in another huge fireball.

The whole scene went deathly quiet, except for the hissing rain. "Jeez," Claypoole said, "you know the worst thing about all this? We won't even get credit for shooting those bastards down."

CHAPTER TWENTY

With O'Mol at the controls, the hydrofoil zoomed along at sixty kph, sending up a huge rooster tail of spray behind it.

"Shouldn't we take it a bit easy?" Pasquin asked. "I mean, aren't you worried about rocks, shallows, floating logs?"

"This part of the river is dredged frequently," O'Mol shouted back, "so tourists can take leisurely trips.

But we can't worry about that now; we've got to put some distance between the farm and us. Some of those men must've survived, somebody had to have sent a message!"

"How far to Placetas?" Dean shouted.

"Seventy-five klicks!" O'Mol answered.

"And to the ocean?"

"Maybe another twenty-five klicks. Piece of cake!"

O'Mol sounded the klaxon. Its harsh arooo! arooo! made the Marines jump. Directly ahead of them was another boat.

"Goddamn, we're gonna hit!" Dean screamed. O'Mol only laughed and increased his speed, At the last instant the boat swerved into the bank and the hydrofoil roared on past, thoroughly soaking the passengers on its open lower deck.

"Goddamned tourists!" O'Mol shouted. "I always wanted to do that to those goggle-eyed freaks!

What the hell are those fools doing out in this weather anyway?" He sounded the klaxon several more times. "Toooot, toooot!" he screamed. "Make way for Steamboat Willie!" O'Mol laughed delightedly, thoroughly enjoying his role as captain of the tiny vessel as the three Marines crouched in the cabin, weapons covering the riverbank as it sped by.

As soon as the light began to fade, O'Mol slowed the hydrofoil. After a few more minutes he pulled it up into some reeds. "We'll wait here until dark," he said. "I have equipment to mask our signatures in case they have more aircraft out looking for us. We'll be reasonably secure once it gets full dark. This river runs right by Placetas. We'll cruise by quietly in the dark. I've got a boat at the mouth of the delta.

We can take it to some islands out in the Ligurian Sea where nobody'll find us. We can hole up there and make plans."

Slowly, carefully, O'Mol guided the hydrofoil into a thick patch of reeds growing in the shallows. He cut the engines and the craft settled silently down to its gunwales. "It's an hour to dark. The overcast and the rain'll hide us from the air." O'Mol laughed. "Besides, there's nothing on Havanagas that can compete with those blasters of yours anyway. But the mob'll be out looking for us; you can count on it. What I'm counting on is they'll be extra cautious because of what you did to them back there." He went into the tiny galley and came back with four bottles of beer.