We’re surrounded. That simplifies things.
MARINE GENERAL “CHESTY” PULLER
At the Battle of the Chosin Reservoir
Standard year 1950
PLANET ALGERON
“Jaggi! Shinn!” McKee shouted. “Grab Clay’s arms. Get him out of here. Sykes, we’ll take the four slot. Hose the bastards down!”
The reaction was swift as the T-1s moved into position on both sides of Clay and lifted him up onto his remaining foot. Hagen was still strapped in. But judging from the way the heat blob was slumped over, McKee knew he was unconscious or dead.
She heard Sykes grunt as a burst of slugs smacked into his chest. That meant they had been fired by one of the warriors positioned between them and the trench. Then, rather than fire back, Sykes turned and exposed McKee to the incoming fire. A bullet struck her between the shoulder blades. Her body armor stopped it, but the impact knocked the air out of her lungs and left her momentarily speechless.
So she fired a burst at Sykes’s right foot as a way to get his attention. It produced a burst of profanity. “That’s the second time,” McKee said, having found her voice. “If you do it again, I’ll pull your brain box and drop it in the shitter. Do you read me?”
There was no reply, but Sykes fired a burst at the spot where the Naa had been and, having received no reaction, turned his attention to other targets. They fell one after another as Jaggi, Shinn, and Clay approached the trench. Someone, either Jenkins or Hasbro, had ordered the robots to lay a metal plate across the ditch. That made it possible for the uninjured cyborgs to cross the gap without being forced to jump. Something which would have been difficult, if not impossible, given the burden they carried. As soon as the other T-1s were clear, it was Sykes’s turn. The ground pounders opened fire seconds later, and the standoff continued.
They arrived in the compound ten minutes later. For the moment, it was out of reach insofar as the Naa were concerned, so the lights had been left on. Once they arrived, McKee jumped to the ground and went to check on Hagen. It didn’t take a medical degree to see that he was dead. McKee bit her lip to keep from crying as she and Kyle freed the body and carried it out to where a long row of dead legionnaires lay.
Unfortunately, they had neither the time nor the parts required to repair Clay. So all McKee could do was have the other T-1s move him to a fighting position on the west side of the compound. A spot where he and his Storm fifty could make an important difference if the FOB came under direct attack.
Then it was time for what remained of the squad to rest and, in the case of the bio bods, grab a quick bite to eat. The sound of intermittent firing could be heard in the distance, but it wasn’t enough to keep McKee awake. All she had to do was lie down on top of a sleep sack. She was unconscious five seconds later.
McKee awoke to see that Larkin was standing over her. “Break’s over,” he announced. “The major asked for you.”
McKee swore, rolled to her feet, and looked around. “Where is he?”
“Top of the slide area.”
“Okay, round everyone up, and I’ll meet you there.”
As Larkin left, McKee took the time necessary to brush her teeth and visit the latrine before making her way to the top of the slide area. Hasbro was there, as were Dero and Vickers. McKee noticed that the civilian was armed. And, judging from the way she held the AXE, quite familiar with firearms.
But Vickers and the Bureau of Missing Persons were a moot point at the moment. Because as McKee looked out over the desert, she saw that the western tribes had not only arrived, but merged with their brethren to form a vast army. It consisted of thousands upon thousands of warriors. With few exceptions, they were clumped together into circular formations that consisted of males from a common village, or a group of villages, all unified under a single chief.
Most were mounted on dooths. So many animals that the morning air was heavy with the rank odor they produced, as well as the smell of smoke from hundreds of cook fires, all contributing to the brown haze that hung over the seething multitude. Colorful pennants flew here and there, light glinted off razor-sharp spear points, and McKee saw that a number of catapults had been brought in from the west. All facing the mesa. She felt a strange emptiness in her stomach. She knew the Legion would fight. But doing so would constitute little more than a brave gesture. “So,” she said, “what are they waiting for?”
Hasbro lowered his binoculars and pointed. “Take a look . . . They’re toying with us. Or him.”
McKee accepted the glasses and brought them up to her eyes. The scene below seemed to jump forward. That was when she saw the stake that had been planted in the ground, the crude platform behind it, and the man who stood with a warrior to either side of him. McKee recognized him right away. Captain Wesley Heacox. Most of his uniform had been cut away, and the Naa were about to lower him onto the sharpened stake. Hasbro said, “Corporal, take your shot.”
McKee looked over to where a legionnaire was sprawled behind a bipod-mounted .50-caliber sniper’s rifle. The range was long but well short of the record for such shots.
As McKee brought the glasses back up, she heard the report. The Naa were holding Heacox over the stake by then. The bullet struck his chest, went through, and killed the Naa standing behind him. The warrior fell backward off the platform, and the body produced a puff of dust as it hit the ground.
That was followed by a moment of absolute silence while people on both sides absorbed what had occurred. Then, as if controlled by a single mind, the Naa uttered a primal roar. “Uh-oh,” Larkin said. “I think they’re pissed.”
“Okay,” Hasbro said, as the sea of warriors began to stir. “This is it. Let’s make the bastards pay.”
McKee was about to mount up when Dero said, “Look! Over there!” And pointed to the northwest. McKee turned, saw two dots, and heard the faint sound of aircraft engines. Fly-forms! Finally, the legionnaires were going to get the air support they had been promised.
Hasbro was in radio contact with the cyborgs seconds later and, after a brief conversation, turned to the others. “There’s just the two of them . . . And no transports. But something is better than nothing.”
And something was better than nothing. As became apparent when the attack aircraft circled the area. That alone was sufficient to forestall the attack on the mesa. Thousands of riders wheeled, collided with other bands of warriors, and even went so far as to trade blows. Meanwhile, others fired up at the fly-forms, hoping for a lucky hit. The gunfire was contagious and quickly spread. The result sounded like thousands of firecrackers all going off at once. But what goes up must come down and some of the multitude were struck by falling bullets.
Having surveyed the scene below, the pilots made their first run. Their fly-forms were designed for close ground support rather than aerial combat. So they were slower than aerospace fighters and carried a different kind of armament. As their bomb-bay doors opened, twenty-five-hundred-pound bombs spilled out of each aircraft. That added up to forty “fives,” as the pilots referred to them, all landing among the fully exposed enemy. The results were horrific to look at.
McKee had never seen anything like it. Enormous columns of dirt soared skyward as if pulled there by some invisible force. Once in the air, they were transparent, and she could see bodies, and parts of bodies whirling upwards, only to fall into craters that opened like graves. Explosions marched across the land, leaving nothing but dead and mangled bodies in their wake. Warriors lay like broken dolls, dooths screamed as they thrashed on the blood-soaked ground, and the thunder continued to roll until every bomb had fallen.
That was sickening enough, but the fly-forms weren’t finished. Each carried two rocket pods, one under each wing, which meant they could fire a total of twenty-four missiles at the ground. “Take the catapults out,” Hasbro ordered, as he looked out over the mayhem. “Get ’em all. Over.”
The fly-forms wheeled, came in low, and went catapult hunting. Some rockets hit dead on, blowing the machines to smithereens and sending splinters of wood in every direction. But even those that missed did damage since each catapult was typically surrounded by an escort of ten to fifteen riders. When the run was over, McKee counted seven catapults that had been destroyed or badly damaged. And that was crucial because, primitive though they were, the devices could still mete out damage to the FOB if the Naa could move them close enough.
At that point, McKee thought the fly-forms had accomplished their mission, but the pilots were clearly determined to use the full array of weapons at their disposal, and that included the rotary guns mounted in the nose of each attack ship. So they circled again and began to fire. Each aircraft could put out more than four thousand rounds of 30 × 173 mm ammo per minute. The big shells reduced riders and their dooths to little more than bloody confetti as they plowed twin furrows across the desert.
But in spite of the chaos, and the suicidal nature of what they were about to do, three Naa warriors had taken positions side by side. They were armed with Legion-issue rocket launchers which rested on their shoulders. And as the first fly-form flew straight at them, they fired.
Two of the missiles flew straight and true. One entered an air intake and the other struck a wing. The results were spectacular. As the wing came off, and an engine exploded, the plane began to corkscrew. It hit the ground hard, tumbled end for end, and disappeared from sight as it fell into a gully. Seconds later, a fireball rose, burned itself out, and vanished.
“I’ll get him,” McKee said. “If he’s alive, we can’t leave him out there.”
“And I’m going, too,” Larkin added. “She needs supervision.”
“No, you aren’t,” Hasbro responded. “One T-1 and one bio bod. That’s all I’m willing to risk. The Naa will be back—and we’ll need every gun we have.”
“What about the second fly-form?” Dero wanted to know. “Can it fly cover for McKee?”
Hasbro held a short conversation with the surviving pilot and turned back to the others. “That’s affirmative. But he can only stay for thirty minutes. Then he’ll be low on fuel. So don’t screw around, McKee . . . Out and back. As fast as you can.”
“Roger that, sir.”
As McKee turned to go, her eyes came into brief contact with Vickers’s. They were dark, like space itself, and equally empty of life.
A line of fighting positions had been established at the top of the slide area. McKee paused next to a crate full of grenades, took two, and spotted two blocks of D-6. Just the thing for destroying the wreck should that be necessary. Then, after dropping the explosives into the ready bags located on either side of her fighting position, McKee climbed up onto Sykes’s back. As she made some final preparations, she spoke to the cyborg over the intercom. “I should have asked you if you were up for this.”
“I am,” Sykes replied.
McKee remembered the two occasions on which Sykes had either been negligent or engaged in an effort to get her killed. There hadn’t been time to discuss the incidents with him. And what could he say if she did? Either way, guilty or not, he would claim the mistakes were just that. Mistakes. She could take another borg, of course—but what if Sykes was innocent? It would look like she didn’t trust him, and how would that affect the squad? Especially in a combat situation. No, she would stick with Sykes and hope for the best. “All right,” McKee said. “Let’s go.”
The Naa were scattered, and too intimidated by the remaining fly-form to gather in one place, but there were a lot of them, and most were on the move. Some were chasing the aircraft and firing at it, while others were searching for missing comrades or just milling around. But all of them represented a danger, and McKee was extremely conscious of that as Sykes arrived on the desert floor and began to pick up speed. “Don’t run in a straight line,” she instructed. “They’ll figure out where we’re headed soon enough. But there’s no reason to do their thinking for them.”
So Sykes took a circuitous path that led past the platform where Heacox still lay, around a large outcropping of rock, and onto some hardpan. A group of riders spotted the T-1 and moved to intercept it. But before they could close with the legionnaires, the fly-form swooped in to protect them. Cannon shells cut a bloody swath through the Naa and added even more carcasses to the body-strewn battlefield. Had it not been for their guardian angel, McKee knew that she would have been dead within a matter of minutes.
Sykes leaped over a dead dooth, skirted a large boulder, and went straight for the gully where the fly-form had disappeared. McKee braced herself as the T-1 skidded down the slope into the dry riverbed below. There were pockets of snow where the sun’s rays couldn’t reach and signs that a group of Naa had been camped in the gully until very recently.
Sykes turned north, and moments later, they rounded a bend and saw the wreckage straight ahead. McKee was aghast. The fly-form looked like a pile of burned-out scrap metal. Yes, the pilot’s brain box had been built to take a lot of punishment—but could anything survive a crash like the one in front of her? It didn’t seem likely, but she had to make sure.
McKee hit the harness release, jumped to the ground, and hurried over to the still-smoking wreck. Engines roared as the other fly-form passed overhead. She was extremely conscious of the fact that time was ticking away as she climbed up onto the remaining wing and followed it to the point where the cockpit would be on a conventional aircraft.
The fuselage just aft of that point had been blackened by fire but the RESCUE decal and arrow were still legible. That gave McKee reason to hope as she pulled the access hatch open. Once that had been accomplished, it was a simple matter to grab the red handle, turn it, and pull the box free. The name stenciled on the side was TREY PADOVICH.
McKee was supporting the metal container with both arms as she turned. And there was Sykes. The cyborg was standing twenty feet away with the Storm fifty pointed at her chest. “Put the box down and take three steps back.”
McKee felt a sense of disappointment mixed with anger. The signs had been there, but she had been hopeful nevertheless. “Why?”
“You know why,” Sykes said. “You’re wearing a whole lot of classified information around your neck. Stuff you aren’t supposed to have. It took a long time to hack it, but I did. Avery108411. That’s the access code. Were you part of the team that assassinated Governor Mason? Beats me . . . And I don’t care. Now, put the box down.”
“Or?”
“Or I’ll take you off at the knees.”
That was it . . . Sykes didn’t want to fire at the box. Because it would mean killing a fellow borg? Because he’d be a hero if he brought Padovich back? Or both? It didn’t matter. McKee placed the brain box on the ground and planned the next move. It would have to be fast—and it would have to be smooth.
The AXE shifted as she bent over and fell. She let it go, jerked her arm out of the sling, and threw herself sideways. Sykes fired and .50-caliber slugs tore up the patch of dirt where she’d been standing.
The remote was in the center pocket of her chest protector. As McKee came to a stop, she fumbled with the pocket flap and pulled the device free. Sykes was turning toward her. A curtain of soil flew up into the air as she pushed a protective cover out of the way and thumbed the button beneath.
The electronic signal triggered one of the demo charges. And when it exploded, the grenades in both ready bags went off as well, followed by the second block of D-6. The result was a series of overlapping explosions that destroyed the upper part of Sykes’s body so thoroughly that only his legs remained. They stood upright for a moment, wobbled, and fell.
McKee’s heart was racing, and her breath was coming in short gasps as she tossed the remote aside and went to recover Padovich. That was when a male voice flooded her helmet. “Hammer-Four-Niner-Three to Charlie-Eight. What happened? Over.”
McKee felt a sense of relief. The pilot had seen smoke but nothing more. “This is Eight. Charlie-Eight-Four stepped on a mine. I have the box and plan to hike out. Over.”
“Roger that, Eight. Paddy will buy you a beer if you make it, and so will I. But I’m down to fifteen minutes’ worth of fuel. At that point, I’ll have just enough to reach the fort. Over.”
“Understood,” McKee replied. “Keep ’em off me as long as you can. Over.”
Having slung the AXE over her shoulder, McKee began the long journey to the mesa. It wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to lug a brain box across a battlefield, and she knew what to expect. That didn’t make it any easier, though. The box was heavy, for one thing, the ground was uneven, and the Naa were all over the place. McKee climbed up out of the gully, took two steps, and tripped. She went down and, without being able to extend her arms, wasn’t able to break the fall.
Somewhere off to the south, she heard an ominous roar and knew the fly-form was making a gun run. She swore, struggled to her feet, and hoisted the box. McKee could see the mesa and it was impossibly far away. It shimmered like a mirage and seemed to float inches above the ground. Still, there was nothing to do but stagger forward. She tried to run, but the box was too heavy for that, and the effort left her winded.
Then she heard a familiar voice and saw a dust plume up ahead. “Stay where you are,” Larkin said. “We’ll be there in a minute.”
McKee stopped, looked up, and wondered why the sky was rotating above her. Then the combat car appeared, braked, and sprayed her legs with loose gravel. Moments later, Larkin was there to support her as Kyle took the box.
Once McKee was in the front passenger seat and strapped in, Larkin hit the gas. The car leaped forward and skittered away. She was feeling better by then and looked at Larkin. “I’m surprised that Hasbro allowed you to come.”
“He didn’t,” Larkin replied, and grinned. Kyle laughed, the car bounced, and McKee wanted to cry.
The combat car only made it halfway up the slide area before it bogged down in loose soil and was unable to go any farther. So the legionnaires were forced to get out and scramble up to the top of the mesa. A group of people was gathered there, and they cheered as Kyle handed the brain box to a tech.
That was when Hasbro spoke to Hammer-Four-Niner-Three for the last time. “Thanks for everything. We’ll take care of your buddy as best we can. And do me a favor on your way home. Over.”
“I’m sorry about Eight-Four,” came the reply. “Many thanks to Eight. Your wish is my command. Over.”
“Destroy the combat car. We can’t use it, and I don’t want it to fall into enemy hands.”
“Roger that. Scratch one car. Over.”
And with that, the fly-form waggled his wings before making a run from east to west. The combat car shook violently and burst into flames as hundreds of bullets swept over it. Then the fly-form made a beeline for the Towers of Algeron and a high mountain pass ten miles away. The sun was low in the sky by that time, and the temperature had started to drop. “Well, Corporal,” Hasbro said, as he turned to Larkin. “That car cost fifty thousand credits. Once we get to Fort Camerone, I’m going to write you up for destroying government property, disobeying an order, and pissing me off. Then I’ll submit a request for some sort of commendation. Who knows? Maybe they’ll cancel each other out.”
Larkin’s countenance was professionally blank. “Sir, yes, sir.”
Hasbro turned his gaze to McKee. “You’re bleeding. Plug the leaks, get something to eat, and grab a nap. It will take some time for the Naa to regroup. And when they do, I’ll need you.”
That was when McKee realized that she had at least a dozen cuts and scratches, some of which were oozing blood. “Yes, sir.”
“And McKee . . .”
“Sir?”
“About twenty Naa managed to climb the cliff up north. Bo took a squad up to stop them. He was killed in action.”
The news hit McKee with the force of a physical blow. She hadn’t known the lieutenant for long, but liked him, and remembered what he’d said. “If I fall.” So many people dead. And for what? She looked away in hopes that Hasbro wouldn’t see how she felt. “That sucks, sir.”
“Yes,” Hasbro agreed. “It does. But that’s how it is. I’m bumping you to second lieutenant. I don’t know if it will stick when we get back, but I’ll do my best.”
So much was left unsaid. If I survive. If you survive. If we get back. “Thank you, sir, but I don’t . . .”
“Shut up, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”
McKee left with Larkin on one side and Kyle on the other. “An officer?” Larkin said disgustedly. “What a suck-up.”
“I think that’s ‘what a suck-up, ma’am,’” Kyle interjected.
“We should have left her out in the desert.”
“You’re the one who stole the car.”
“And you’re the one who’s going to wind up with my boot up his ass.”
McKee couldn’t help but grin. “Thank you, both. I’ll never forget what you did for me.”
“Too bad about Sykes,” Larkin observed. “He liked you. Used to talk about you all the time.”
“Yeah,” McKee agreed, as they entered the FOB. “Too bad about Sykes.”
And that was when she remembered Vickers. Did she know what Sykes knew? Of course she did. Sykes had been talking to her. McKee felt a chill run down her spine. It wasn’t over. It couldn’t be. Not so long as Vickers was alive.
The first-aid station was filled with wounded. The light was dim, those who could were leaning against the walls, while others lay sprawled on the floor. A soldier whimpered as the medical officer removed what remained of his left leg, and a medic sought to comfort him. “Don’t worry, buddy . . . Your new leg will be better than the old one. Bulletproof, too!”
McKee backed out and made her way past a row of fighting positions to the informal squad bay where her gear was stored. After searching for and finding her personal first-aid kit, she put disinfectant on all of the open cuts before spraying them with sealer.
Once that chore was out of the way, she ate part of an MRE and lay down with the intention of taking a nap. It was completely dark by then and cold. Snow had begun to fall outside the shelter and served to dampen the sounds around her. So McKee should have been able to sleep but couldn’t. Not so soon after the rescue mission, Sykes’s death, and the depressing update from Hasbro. Plus there was Vickers to worry about as well.
So after twenty minutes, McKee freed herself from the sleep sack, washed her face, and left the FOB. It seemed natural to make her way to the top of the slide area, where she could look out over the desert below. Two squads of infantry were on duty along with a couple of Bo’s T-1s. All waiting for the inevitable. A sergeant nodded and blew on his hands. “Cold enough for you?”
“My butt is so cold I think it’s bulletproof.” It was a lame joke but sufficient to draw laughter from those who could hear.
The desert was black, or would have been, if it hadn’t been for thousands of campfires. They flickered as the snow fell in front of them, and they stretched for as far as the eye could see. And as McKee looked at them, she knew the Naa would take the mesa within a matter of hours once they brought their forces back together. That was certain. In fact the only thing that had prevented them from doing so earlier was the sudden arrival of air support. And the weather was so bad that fly-forms wouldn’t be able to make the trip even if the brass could spare them.
So, barring a miracle, what could they do? The initial answer was nothing. But then McKee had an idea. A horrible, terrible idea, but one that might work nevertheless. But could she sell it? The logical person to start with was Dero. She had always been open to suggestions from the ranks, and Hasbro was likely to defer to her in any case.
McKee lowered her visor, activated the HUD, and chose MAP. That was followed by PERSONNEL. An outline of the mesa as viewed from above appeared. McKee said, “Lieutenant Dero,” and a dot started to glow. It was only a short distance away from the east–west trench designed to keep the Naa from attacking the FOB.
On an impulse, McKee said, “Carly Vickers.” There was no response. And couldn’t be because the civilian didn’t have a Legion helmet. That meant Vickers could be anywhere. Or, maybe the bitch was dead. That would solve the problem.
As McKee made her way toward the trench, she found Dero sitting behind a screen of rocks. The officer was heating a mug of water over a heat tab, and the glow lit her face from below. It was drawn, and she looked tired. “Hey, McKee . . . Pull up a rock. I’m glad you made it back in one piece.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Have you got a minute?”
The water started to boil. Dero ripped a foil packet open with her teeth and dumped instant caf into the mug. “Sure . . . What’s on your mind?”
So McKee told her. It took about two minutes. And when she was done, Dero winced. “It’s been done before, but rarely, and for good reason. Everyone is likely to die.”
“Everyone is likely to die anyway.”
“True,” Dero said, stirring the contents of her mug.
“And if we put the robots to work now, we’ll stand a better chance of success,” McKee put in. “Every minute counts.”
Dero blew steam off her mug. “You’re crazy. You know that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, Lieutenant, I’ll take your idea to Major Hasbro.”
McKee heard the “Lieutenant,” and felt an unexpected sense of pride. And that was stupid. The Legion was a place to hide. Or had been. But now, much to her surprise, it was something more. It was a profession, a family, and a country. Legio Patria Nostra. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“One more thing,” Dero said as she took a sip. “There are just three of us now. Sergeant Major Jenkins has responsibility for the north end of the mesa. He has a single squad, and their job is to ensure that the fur balls don’t scale one of the cliffs again.
“I plan to handle this stretch. The enemy is sure to mass south of here and push this way. I want you to take command of the platoon at the slide area. Hold out as long as you can. Then, when the time comes, we’ll pull back to the FOB.”
“Yes, ma’am. A question.”
“Shoot.”
“What happened to the civilian? What’s her name?”
“Vickers’s fine,” Dero replied. “She volunteered to fight, and she’s up north with Jenkins.”
“Glad to hear it,” McKee lied. “We can use the help.” And with that, she left.
The sun was starting to rise by the time McKee returned to the slide area. But it was little more than a yellow stain on the otherwise gray sky—and the rapidly falling snow had reduced visibility to half a mile or so. What were the Naa doing? she wondered. Licking their wounds? Or prepping for battle?
The questions went unanswered as she made the rounds, introduced herself to the ground pounders, and did what she could to reassure them. The position at the top of the slope consisted of three lateral trenches, each separated by thirty yards of open ground. The plan was to surrender the first ditch if necessary, pull back, and wait for it to fill up with Naa. That was when the electronically detonated mines would go off, slaughtering most, if not all of them.
It was a good plan, but it would only work once, then the Naa would advance on the second trench. Or would they? The Naa were smart, so if they had Legion-issue grenades, they would throw them into the second ditch in an effort to detonate the mines. That left the third trench, which the legionnaires would hold just long enough to prepare a coordinated withdrawal. Because they needed to work in concert with Jenkins and Dero.
Once inside the FOB, they would fight until the last legionnaire fell or, if Major Hasbro approved her plan, they triggered something that might save them. There was no way to know in advance.
McKee’s thoughts were interrupted as what remained of her squad arrived. That gave her eighteen bio bods plus four T-1s with which to stop what? Five thousand Naa? Ten thousand? Too damned many. That was for sure. “Larkin, I’m putting you in charge of the cavalry. With the sole exception of you, I’d like to put the rest of the bio bods on the ground. But let’s keep them together in case they need to mount up. We’ll use the T-1s to protect our flanks. While we’re focused on the slide area, the Naa could send climbers up the cliffs. Don’t let that happen.”
Larkin looked surprised but hurried to cover up. “Got it . . . I mean, Yes, ma’am.”
Suddenly, there was a roar as a fireball arced out of the thickly falling snow and exploded on the ground below. A cloud of steam rose, but the flames soon disappeared. The infantry sergeant was named Hollister. He spoke over the squad push. “Stand to, here they come.”
McKee gave the enemy credit. They had used the snowstorm to move at least one catapult in close. And that wasn’t all. As she looked downslope, warriors materialized out of the whiteness, uttered war cries, and charged uphill. “Hold your fire,” McKee ordered, as another fireball fell. “Let them get closer.”
McKee knew her troops were getting low on ammo and didn’t want to waste any. More than that, she wanted to make an impression on the Naa. The kind they wouldn’t forget.
Meanwhile, as the bravest of the brave stormed up the hill, a line of skirmishers appeared at the bottom of the slope. McKee saw that they were armed with rifles. Then, as a warrior shouted a command, they brought the weapons up to their shoulders. The movements were ragged, and would never get the nod from the likes of Sergeant Major Jenkins, but the rudiments of discipline were there. The Naa were learning.
A second order produced jets of smoke and a ragged volley. It was intended to provide cover for the warriors who were struggling up the hill. Bullets kicked up dirt all around the trench and a legionnaire swore as a projectile nipped her arm. “Steadddy . . .” Hollister said. “You heard the lieutenant. Wait for it.”
A fireball soared over McKee’s head to land uphill of her. She ignored it. “All right, people. Prepare to fire . . . Fire!”
The centerpiece of their defenses was a .50-caliber machine gun. It began to chug as two 60mm mortars opened fire, and legionnaires not otherwise occupied cut loose with their assault weapons. The results were horrific. Bravery was no match for modern weapons fired at point-blank range. The Naa went down in clusters, and their bodies were an impediment to those coming up from below.
Then a horn sounded. And as the survivors pulled back, some carrying wounded, the skirmishers fired a final volley. McKee shouted, “Cease fire!” as the enemy retreated behind a curtain of snow.
“Well, that was easy,” a private remarked.
“The Naa were testing us,” McKee said grimly. “They wanted to know how strong our defenses are. Hear that?”
The legionnaire listened. “Firing from the south.”
“Yes. They’re probing the east–west trench line. Looking for weak spots. Then they’ll make tea, talk things over, and come for us.”
The soldier looked alarmed. “So we’re screwed?”
McKee realized how stupid she’d been. Thinking out loud in front of an eighteen-year-old kid. She forced a smile. “No, of course not . . . You saw what happened yesterday. The enemy took a royal ass kicking. And if they want some more, we’ll dish it out.” The legionnaire was clearly relieved.
But they were meaningless words. McKee believed that the real hope, if there was one, lay in the plan she had offered to Dero. And she had no way of knowing what Hasbro’s response had been. But if he was working on it, the more time the better—so she hoped the Naa would take a long break. And they did.
What ensued was a period of boredom interspersed with occasional fireballs, long-range rifle shots, and attempts to scale the neighboring cliffs. McKee knew the activity was meant to keep her people on edge, and it was effective. So she rotated legionnaires out for thirty-minute breaks, allowed her troops to brew caf in the trench, and let them sing drinking songs. Anything to provide a distraction.
McKee figured the attack would come when night fell, but it didn’t. Maybe the Naa were planning. Or maybe they were squabbling. But by the time the sun finally rose, she was so tired she wanted the battle to begin. And she got her wish.
The rate of snowfall had slowed by then, the ceiling had lifted, and visibility had improved. That meant the legionnaires could see the tightly focused column that was marching straight at them. It was fifty warriors wide and at least half a mile long. And, much to McKee’s amazement, they were marching in step! Most of the time, anyway—with drums to keep time. A formation Napoleon had used. The steady boom, boom, boom had an ominous quality and seemed to match the beating of her heart.
McKee guessed that the oncoming warriors were grouped by village, or by chief, which meant they were shoulder to shoulder with people they knew. That suggested they would not only feel more confident but would fight to protect or in some cases make their reputations.
Then, as the Naa came closer, McKee saw that the first rank of warriors was wearing Legion-issue body armor! All taken from dead legionnaires over the last few days, weeks, and months. But that wasn’t all. There were catapults as well, plus two light field guns, which were being towed into position on both sides of the column. Easy meat for artillery or T-1-launched rockets. The problem being that she didn’t have any.
Farther out, beyond the column, she could see massed cavalry. All waiting for the column to open the door. Then they would rush in, dismount, and swarm the mesa. Still another sign that the Naa were learning fast.
As the field guns opened fire, and fireballs began to fly, there was no further opportunity for analysis. All McKee could do was order her troops to fire. And fire they did. Most of the first row went down in spite of the body armor they wore. But there were more, and more after that, and the relatively small number of legionnaires couldn’t keep up as the column began to climb the hill. Chillingly, they made no attempt to stop and fight as they stepped on dead or dying warriors. The Naa in the front rank were looking upwards, paying the price, hoping to be among those who would reach the top of the slope. McKee fired, emptied a magazine, and went to work with a new one. The column kept coming.
After a couple of ranging shots, one of the fieldpieces scored a direct hit on the south end of the trench. Four legionnaires were killed and another was wounded. That was nearly 25 percent of McKee’s bio bods, and she had no choice but to fall back and notify Dero that she was doing so.
Larkin and the T-1s stepped up to provide the legionnaires with cover fire as they scrambled uphill. McKee waited until all of the surviving soldiers had completed the journey before leaving herself. The skirmishers had returned, and their bullets kicked up geysers of dirt all around McKee as she high-stepped her way up the slope and fell into trench two.
Then, conscious of the speed with which the column was advancing, she struggled to get up on her knees. It was almost too late. The first rank of Naa had passed through trench one by then, and members of the second rank were muscling the fifty around so they could fire it uphill.
Seeing that, McKee fumbled the remote into the open, slid the safety cover out of the way, and mashed the red button. The mines went off with a mighty roar. Bodies, and parts of bodies, were thrown high into the air, and the machine gun was destroyed. Having lost four men, McKee felt a grim sense of satisfaction. The Naa knew about the mines now . . . Maybe that would slow them down.
It didn’t. They kept coming. And some of the warriors had grenades. They threw them. Most fell short. But one bounced and landed in trench two, where it killed one legionnaire and wounded another.
McKee swore and spoke over the platoon push. “Maintain fire but prepare to pull back. Over.”
Then, having switched to the command frequency, she put in a call to Dero. “Charlie-Eight to Zulu-Two. We lost trench one, we’re in two, and about to pull back. Over.”
The reply came quickly, and McKee could hear the rattle of auto fire to the south. “Roger that Eight. Pull back when you’re ready—but hold there until I give the word. Zulu-One has been working on Operation Hammer—and preparations are complete. Over.”
Suddenly, McKee had reason to hope. Maybe, just maybe, they would be able to salvage a few lives. Thanks to a hail of bullets from the T-1s, the pullback went smoothly. And as she surfaced in trench three, she saw that the first rank of Naa were piling into trench one in order to protect themselves from a second blast. And farther down, the column had gone facedown on the ground.
McKee grinned and thumbed another remote. On her orders, the mines that had been planted in the bottom of trench two had been moved to a spot five yards in front of it. Close enough to kill most of the Naa who were hiding in trench one.
There was another series of explosions, and more mayhem, followed by a red rain. The entire slope was strewn with dead bodies. Would that stop them?
The column rose as if from a grave and continued to climb. Victory was only yards away. The legionnaires fired, but the enemy kept coming. “Eight to Two . . . We need to pull out. Over.”
That was when Hasbro’s voice boomed over the company push. “This is One. Prepare to fall back on the FOB. The cyborgs will provide covering fire until the rest of our personnel are inside the perimeter. At that point, they will withdraw as well. Execute. Over.”
“You heard the major,” McKee said over the platoon push. “You will pull back but do so in an orderly manner. Sergeant, take squad two. Squad one will prepare to pull out. The rest of us will try to slow the bastards down.”
McKee and members of the first squad threw every grenade they had downhill and fired short bursts from their assault rifles. Holes appeared in the front of the column but were closed from behind as the drums continued to roll. They were close now, very close, and she could hear the equivalent of noncoms urging the warriors on.
Then, McKee ordered the rest of the legionnaires to leave. They got up, zigzagged over open ground, and disappeared between two rock formations. The FOB lay just beyond.
With that accomplished, it was time for McKee to depart as well. She scrambled out of the trench, found her footing, and began to run. What she needed was some cover. A place from which she would be able to see the Naa crest the hill. That was when she would detonate the very last row of mines.
So she ran toward a likely-looking rock, or was trying to, when a bullet passed through her right calf. She fell forward and hit hard. Where was the fire coming from? McKee was desperate to know as she rolled over and felt for the AXE. A burst of bullets kicked up snow all around the weapon, and McKee jerked her hand back. Then she saw Vickers. The other woman was fifty feet away and about to fire again.
McKee threw herself to the left, heard a burst of auto fire, and rolled to her feet. The pain was intense, but she managed to hobble forward and dive behind some scrub. Then, moving on her hands and knees, she scuttled south. Bullets tore through the brush. One of them hit a boulder, and she felt bits of rock pepper her cheek.
Then, as she propelled herself through some scrub, the hammer fell. Somewhere up in orbit, an order had been given, and a salvo of space-to-surface energy bolts had been fired. The first round made a screaming sound as it passed through the atmosphere and struck the ground. That was followed by another, and another, all overlapping each other so as to kill everything in the area. First the Naa in the east, then the Naa on the mesa itself, then the Naa off to the west.
The process was something akin to suicide. The only chance to survive the bombardment was to dig deep holes and dive into them. And that’s where the rest of Force Zulu was. In bunkers under the FOB.
But McKee wasn’t, and that meant she had two things to worry about. Vickers and the energy bolts that were raining down from the sky. McKee’s knees were bloody by that time, but she barely noticed. She could see a dead legionnaire up ahead. One of Dero’s people. And there, right next to the corpse, was an open fighting position.
There was no time to plan or do anything other than crawl forward and plunge into the hole. The ground shook as a bolt landed on the mesa, and McKee struggled to turn over. Her pistol . . . She was reaching for it when Vickers loomed above. The agent smiled as she pointed the AXE downwards. “Good-bye, Miss Carletto.”
Time froze, and in that moment a bolt landed a hundred feet away, and Vickers ceased to exist. The explosion was so loud that McKee’s eardrums would have been ruptured had it not been for the dampening effect of her helmet. Then, after sending a powerful shock wave outward, air was sucked back into the momentary vacuum with another clap of thunder. McKee saw a blizzard of debris pass over the fighting position. It paused as pressures were equalized, and fell. All she could do was roll into a ball while dirt, small rocks, and a gobbet of bloody meat rained down on her.
McKee wanted to escape the hole but knew it was best to remain where she was until the bolts passed over and moved on to pummel the west side of the mesa. As the explosions continued to march away, she used her knife to hack a section of pant leg off, winced when she saw the holes, and fought the dizziness that tried to claim her.
Fortunately, the bullet hadn’t touched bone, she didn’t think so anyway, but she knew she’d have another scar. The kind of blemish the previous her would have agonized over. McKee laughed manically as she pulled a premedicated pressure dressing out of a pouch on her chest protector and ripped the package open. The dressing began to writhe as it sought blood and wrapped itself around her calf the moment she brought it near. She felt a comforting sense of heat as the bandage sealed itself to her skin, applied pressure, and began to pump a cocktail of chemicals into both wounds.
Satisfied that the leaks had been plugged, and refreshed by whatever stimulant had entered her bloodstream, McKee stood. Then, having crawled out of the hole, she struggled to her feet. The wounds hurt, but not as badly as before. So, by gritting her teeth and uttering every swear word she knew, she managed to hobble over to the slope. The remote was ready, in case there was a need to blow the last row of mines, but it quickly became apparent that McKee could throw the device away. All of the explosives had been detonated by a direct hit. And the huge star-shaped crater overlaid most of trenches two and three as well.
As for the Naa, there wasn’t much left to look at. Just bloodstained snow and a scattering of body parts and weapons. Farther downslope, the corpses were piled in drifts. And beyond that, out on the plain, she saw what had to be hundreds of craters and a carpet of bodies that stretched for as far as the eye could see.
The energy bolts had ceased to fall by then, and as McKee removed her helmet, Hasbro appeared at her side. “I knew you were alive,” he said. “I could see your icon on my HUD.”
“And the others?”
“Everybody who made it to the FOB survived. Twenty-seven people in all. Vickers’s missing though.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah.”
McKee looked out over the desert. As the sun arced into the west, a crack appeared in the overcast and a single ray of sunshine touched the ground. “So we won.”
Hasbro was silent for a moment. And when he spoke, his voice was grave. “We survived.”
McKee nodded. And that, she decided, would have to do.