Bolos: The Triumphant Part 7

All Willum had to do was wait.

During the long hours of waiting, he'd read everything on Red he could access; he knew her systems as well as he was going to. All that remained was to sit through the coming mission and hope like h.e.l.l the Deng didn't give him anything to do. He turned over, restive and too keyed up to relax, even when he tried deep breathing and relaxation techniques. Finally he gave up and slipped out of his bunk. He tiptoed into the head and closed the door. The head was quite literally the only place inside Red where a man could find any privacy at all.

"Willum?" Red asked softly after he'd been in there for twenty solid minutes, trying to cope with night terrors and the sense that he would somehow fail his fellow crewmen by forgetting or not knowing something critical. "I am not registering any signs of illness. Nor do you appear to need to use the head's standard facilities."

"Uh, no . . . I'm not sick." Not physically . . . He took the plunge. "I, uh, just wanted to get away from the others. I can't sleep," he admitted.

"Your service record indicates that you have never been in combat. You are not a Marine. Combat is not your function. Nervous stress is normal in your situation, Willum. Would you like a mild sedative?"

"No . . . No, I don't want to be muzzy tomorrow."

"I can prescribe a medication which will not leave you groggy after you reawaken. You need to rest. Tomorrow will be a busy day."

"Yeah," Willum muttered. "For everyone else." He crossed his arms over his bare chest. "Dammit, I feel about as useful around here as an opposable thumb on a coconut."

"Willum. We need to chat."

He sighed. "Shoot."

"You have expressed the same frustration I heard often from Honey Pie. Honshuko Kai," she added. Willum could all but see her amused smile. "Honey Pie often felt himself to be a useless team member, even though he was my longest-serving crewman and essential to my continued mission readiness." The door to the head hissed open silently. Red's manipulator arms entered on the overhead track. The door closed again. "Here"--she extended a manipulator arm--"let me give you that sedative. Hold still, it'll sting only a second."

He allowed Red to give him the injection.

"Honey Pie once said he felt like cook, butler, and chief bottle washer in an expensive travel-trailer."

Willum chuckled. "Know the feeling, Red. I know the feeling. How'd he deal with it?"

"We played a lot of cards. Would you like to learn canasta?"

"Canasta?" Willum blinked, momentarily startled; then smiled. "My grandmother used to play canasta. Okay, Red, show me."

She produced two card decks from a small console in the head itself; then a tiny tabletop slid out from the wall. Willum just stared. Red told him, "Honey Pie installed these fixtures just for the two of us to share on nights like this. This is the only place, you know, where I can hold a private conversation with one of my boys. I think you need that almost as much as you needed that sedative and something else to think about."

She shuffled cards with extraordinary skill. "Now . . . before we begin, I have one last piece of advice. I always told Honey Pie this, so I will tell you, also. We are each selected to serve in exactly the right capacity for our talents and skills. Beware asking for something more. The G.o.ds may be listening."

Willum s.h.i.+vered. "Thanks. You have a point, there." He grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. "I guess I wouldn't be much use on a Dismount Team. I couldn't sneak my way out of a paper bag." Then, because curiosity got the better of him, he asked, "How come you're so . . . not smart, wise?"

Red's chuckle issued from the speaker grill. "I was programmed with an extensive library on psychology, philosophy, and comparative religions in order to interact more effectively with my crew. And I have learned during the past eight years what my crewmen think about on the eve of a mission.

"Now . . . I deal each of us fifteen cards. The object is to collect sets of seven like cards. Such a set is called a canasta. You may use up to three wild cards per canasta, although such a 'mixed' canasta has a lower point value. At least one canasta is required before you can go out. . . ."

Willum fell asleep in the third hand, a thousand and fifty points behind but content with the score.

Gunny Hok.u.m woke at 03:40 and eased out of his bunk to use the head. Someone else had closed the door to use it ahead of him. Gunny waited. And waited. Twenty minutes later, he knocked on the panel to a.s.sure himself that no one was ill--although surely Red would've said something--and heard Red's voice whisper, "Yes, Gunny, you should come in, please."

He eased open the panel and found Willum DeVries slumped over a hand of canasta, fast asleep. One of Red's internal manipulator "hands" rested on his shoulder, gently. Gunny discovered a sudden thickening of the throat that made swallowing difficult. No wonder Ish fell for you, little lady . . .

He felt sorry for DeVries, sorrier in some ways than he felt for Hopper, who at least had something to do. Gunny had lost track of the number of times Honey Pie had sat at that same tiny table, playing canasta in privacy with Red while Gunny and his men prepared for a mission. He missed Honshuko and Specter. Losing men out of a crew like this left gaping holes in a man's life. Unfinished conversations, plans that would never come to fruition . . .

Successful Mark XXI teams remained together, often for years at a time, growing closer and ever more effective, because once a crew was a.s.sembled which worked well together, breaking it up for anything more than seriously important reasons was just plain stupid. Specter and Honey Pie had been like family to Gunny. He appreciated how difficult it must be for someone like DeVries to be thrust into such a tight-knit group as outsider--then find himself with absolutely nothing to do. He was glad Red was taking care of the young engineer.

"Hey," he shook DeVries gently. "Sleeping Beauty. Wake up."

DeVries snorted, stirred, peeled his eyelids. "Hnnhh?"

"You'll get a crick in your neck, sleeping like that. And I gotta use the can. Hit the sack."

DeVries stumbled, a little gla.s.sy-eyed; then nodded and said, "Sorry, Gunny. G'night, Red."

"Good night, Willum. Sleep tight."

Gunny chuckled. "And don't let the bedbugs bite."

DeVries reeled a little, but made it safely back to his hammock. He collapsed into it and faded back into oblivion. Red quietly put away the cards and slid the table aside as Gunny settled in the head.

"How much of that sleepy-time did you give him, Red?"

"Only three cc's. He needed it."

Gunny finished his business; then sighed. "Yeah. I bet he did. Red-" He paused before opening the door.

"Yes, Gunny?"

"Oh, nothing." Gunny didn't lack for courage; but expressing his feelings was one thing he'd never had the luxury of doing. So he simply said, "Good night, Red."

"Good night, Gunny."

In the privacy of his own thoughts, he added, "Thanks for being such a d.a.m.n good friend."

As he climbed back into his hammock, he realized he needed that friends.h.i.+p tonight in a way he couldn't explain. He drifted back into sleep without difficulty, content that Red was there, watching over them.

3.

The Enemy has established a large staging area north of the mines, where expected. I enter a holding area for ore carriers which arrive in a convoy. I survey our surroundings. There are no Enemy physically present at this facility. I scan the mining complex. The operation is entirely automated. The mine has been drilled into the face of a sheer cliff and descends 12.5 kilometers beneath it.

The cliff stretches away to the west as a tall ridge which drops and breaks at the tip into two forks like the tongue of a Terran viper, creating two separate ridgelines, one overlooking the mine and the other overlooking a valley to the north, where the Enemy has concentrated a battle force. Terrain around the tips of these forked ridgelines is more open, providing the ability to move cross-country into the valley where the Enemy force waits. These two ridges are the goal of my Dismount Teams.

Another long, low ridgeline runs east-west directly south of the mine, almost like an island. The mine's access road loops completely around this ridge so that arriving and departing ore carriers do not have to pa.s.s one another in the confined area of the mine itself. Outside the main facilities plant are open sheds which cover stacks of standard structural steel pipe, internal diameter 75 millimeters.

I determine that this pipe is used for steam fittings for pumping steam and hot ore slurry. Other open sheds house stacks of ore slugs in a standard Enemy unit of measurement, which translates to 73.99 millimeters by 147.98 millimeters. Large tanks house petrochemicals used in some capacity, I am not sure what--I am not a miner. I simply note their location and volume.

The reason for the presence of processed ore slugs becomes apparent: to speed up production capacity, the Enemy has installed a pre-processing facility to convert ore slurry to slugs. This facility also functions on fully-automatic status, converting hot ore slurry to finished ore slugs for easier transport. This plant clearly allows faster turnaround time for the ore cars, which now do not have to be cleaned by hand between trips to remove ore encrustations from their hoppers. The Enemy is impatient for war materiel. I file this discovery for proper reporting to FleetCom. The Fleet is due out of FTL in another seven hours. We must be ready to transmit our final intelligence report by then.

Ahead of me, ore cars begin to transmit their readiness to receive another load to the computer which operates the mine facilities plant. They transmit in turn as they approach the end of the access road. When my turn comes, I transmit on the proper frequency that I have experienced technical problems en route and must retire from the queue to await maintenance. A computerized response directs me to park between the storage sheds and the nearest of the ridgelines. This is happily near the spot in which I must take up my mission position in accordance with my Commander's plan.

I move out of line. The parking spot I choose places me exactly where my Commander has requested me to position myself for this mission. I am now behind the shoulder of the "island" ridgeline. My rear hatch is in shadow. I am ready.

"Doug, are the Dismount Teams ready?"

"DT's, prepare to move out!"

"DT-1 ready," Gunny says.

Milwaukee seconds him. "DT-2 ready."

My Chameleon screen's projection will cover the opening of my rear personnel hatch. The Dismount Teams move into position near the hatch, awaiting my signal. They are suited for stealth.

"Set suit outer-skin controls to 16.71 degrees centigrade." They adjust suit controls and wait until their suits chill down to the proper thermal signature. Their equipment is ready: pa.s.sive scanners, man-portable weapons, line-of-sight communications gear, grid screens behind which they will dig in for the duration of this reconnaissance mission.

Similar to the energy-conversion screens I carry, these grids will absorb Enemy energy-weapons fire and convert it to a useable form to power their lightweight infinite repeaters. These repeaters will automatically return fire at anything which fires at the grid screens. Residual byproduct heat means the screens can protect the teams for a only a short time should they come under fire, offering minimal s.h.i.+elding, which is superior to no s.h.i.+elding. None of my boys has ever needed to use the grid; but I do not allow my Dismount Teams off my deckplates without it.

All equipment is carried in stealth-rigged packs which function in the same manner as stealth suits. I monitor the drop in temperature as the Dismount Teams adjust pack external temperatures to match their suits. Weapons are covered with thermal coverings to prevent the air in their barrels, which remains at the same temperature as the inside of my Crew Compartment, from triggering thermal alarms the Enemy may have in place. I scan the area. We are in shadow. No Enemy signatures register on my sensors.

"Go with care, my children," I whisper. I open my rear personnel hatch.

My Dismount Teams salute my rear hatch scanners and exit. I close the hatch and watch their progress. They wait until their presence is screened by arriving ore cars, then move down the long ridgeline to the west. They pause, then vanish from my view behind the blunt end. I wait. The teams reappear, dodging arriving ore carriers to cross the road. It is an extreme risk to cross the road in this manner, but less of a risk than scaling the sheer wall and rappelling down the only other approach to the twin forked ridgelines. They reach the shadows of the far ridge. I monitor their climb.

DT-1 has the farthest to travel. DT-2 takes up position where our Commander has instructed, on the near ridgeline of the twin forks. I can see my boys dig in and set up their grid screen. They do a good job. I must use all my sensors to locate them and I know where to look. DT-1 travels beyond my line of sight to the far ridgeline. I worry. I am never at ease when I cannot see my boys.

DT-1 has orders to scan the valley north of their position for the Enemy. DT-2 will relay their findings to me in coded burst transmissions which will sound to the Enemy like background static in clear air. DT-2 signals that DT-1 has taken position. We wait. Banjo monitors readings from my sensors. Doug relays instructions and reviews mission plans again. We wait. DT-2 transmits preliminary data in a single burst. I decode it for Doug while preparing a file for transmission to FleetCom.

"Red, DT-1 reports a mother-load of 'em in that valley. Not as many as we found at that processing plant, but they see twenty Yavac Scouts, a couple of Cla.s.s C heavies, maybe five hundred infantry. No s.p.a.ceport facility; but they have air capability. Five air scouts. A heavy transport. Gunny says he'll forward a detailed transmission when he finishes scanning everything into a data file. There's activity to the east he wants to monitor--looks like maybe this enclave's about to be bigger, he says. DT-2, out."

My Commander swears in language he does not often use.

"You could order 'em back," Banjo says.

"Yeah. And if that activity to the east turns out to be critical reinforcements in Deng fighting strength, we'll kill a s.h.i.+pload of Marines taking this pit. We wait."

The waiting grows increasingly difficult.

Gunny's career had ensured visits to a lot of alien worlds. This one, nicknamed Hobson's Mines because only mining generated sufficient cash to buy imported technology, was one of the most rugged he'd encountered. Tectonic forces had buckled its surface into fantastic canyons and cloud-piercing mountain ranges in the more remote areas, while erosion and ancient continental glaciers had "gentled" some areas into merely jagged ridgelines and glacial valleys with the occasional alluvial plain. Where they sat now, Gunny had a commanding view of the terrain for kilometers; yet he could see very few ground features except for what lay in the valley directly to the north and the ridgeline just south of him, where Milwaukee had dug in with DT-2.

In the distance, ridge after ridgeline marched away in the fading twilight, clothed in ruddy light and the low-growing, th.o.r.n.y scrub which clung tenaciously to the stony soil. The valley to the north was a cla.s.sic, U-shaped glacial valley. It was--outside of the processing plant region--the largest stretch of flat land Gunny had yet seen on this mineral-rich world. It made an ideal staging post for the Deng. Farmsteads the length of the valley were now abandoned, their animals grazing wherever the concentrations of Deng hadn't driven them off.

The terrain around Gunny's position was an open, gentle slope to the north and the west; directly east, the ridgeline where he'd dug in soared upward in a nearly vertical wall. Behind them, to the south, the ridgeline sloped gently down into a V-shaped cut that separated Gunny and DT-1 from the other fork of the snake-tongued double ridges. DT-2 had dug in there for the duration. Beyond them were the mine and the ridgeline which concealed Red.

He watched and recorded troop movements into and out of the valley, noting that another ma.s.s of infantry came in by air. Wrong direction for someone coming from the processing plant. They must have another base of operations we don't know about farther east. Gunny noted that in his growing data file. Meanwhile, more troops continued to flow in from the east, arriving by air. Heavy transports were bringing in more big Cla.s.s One Yavacs. Additional scout-cla.s.s Yavacs came in, as well.

They know something's up. They're reinforcing h.e.l.l out of the mines. Dammit, how many more of 'em are scheduled to arrive here? Worse, what looked like a whole infantry division was headed west up the long, open valley, escorted by a point guard of Yavac armored scout vehicles, each as large as Red, moving on jointed, multiple legs like their creators.

Gunny s.h.i.+vered inwardly and glanced at the chronometer inside his faceplate. Fleet was due out of FTL in seven minutes. They had to relay what they knew to date so Red could warn FleetCom. Leave it to the d.a.m.n spodders to wait till Fleet's due out of FTL to start a major troop movement. Red's transmission would instantly give away her position; but the mission was more important than the men.

Even when Red was one of the "men."

He glanced at Eagle Talon Gunn and Icicle Goryn, read in their faces that they, too, knew the score. One LRH unit or thousands of Marines and an entire world lost. . . .

Wordlessly, Gunny compressed his data files and encrypted them, then sent them to Milwaukee in a burst transmission.

"They've seen us, Gunny!"

"What?" Gunny jerked around toward Eagle Talon's position just in time to see the h.e.l.lfire blaze of energy weapons fire streak through the twilight. "s.h.i.+t-!"

The screen flared and sizzled under the impact.

"We're taking fire! Milwaukee, get DT-2 the h.e.l.l out of-"

The screen flared and sizzled again.

"One Yavac Scout visible, Gunny," Eagle Talon said tersely. "Closing on our position-"

"BEHIND YOU!" Icicle shouted, pointing toward DT-2's position. Another Yavac Scout was moving in fast, monstrous in the growing darkness, guns trained on the Dismount Team trying to scramble toward Red.

Gunny yelled into his transmitter, "Milwaukee! Behind you! Get under that screen! That's two Yavacs--no, three. G.o.d, they're coming out of nowhere-"

Energy weapons tore into the hillside, forcing DT-2 back under the cover of their energy screens. Gunny checked the time. Fleet still hadn't dropped out of FTL. They were pinned down and completely on their own.

"We've gotta keep 'em away from Red's position until she transmits to FleetCom. Let's entertain 'em, boys."

He could tell from their eyes that Eagle Talon and Icicle were every bit as terrified as he was. That didn't stop them from opening up with all available weapons. Eagle Talon took charge of the infinite repeaters, depressing the stud which activated the automatic-fire sequence and tracking controls. Icicle added energy-rifle fire to the automatic weapons fire their screens now generated with every new hit. The temperature under the screens began to climb with every murderous energy bolt that slammed into it. Their suits would compensate for a while; but only for a while. He glanced at the chronometer again: six minutes before estimated Fleet arrival.

It was going to be a long, long six minutes.

Gunny unslung his own rifle and opened fire.

I receive a coded burst from DT-2, transmitting Gunny's report. FleetCom is due in six minutes, twenty seconds. Two point seven seconds later I receive a second coded burst which translates as "We are compromised." Explosions light the darkening sky: energy weapons have been fired at DT-1. I receive a third coded burst: "We are taking fire." More explosions occur along the far ridgeline. Only the tip of my sensor array is exposed above the shoulder of the ridgeline I am concealed behind. I watch DT-2 attempt to scramble down from their position. The appearance of a Cla.s.s One Yavac Scout cuts off their retreat. It fires into the hillside. My boys scramble for safety under their screens.

Under the strict rules of engagement which govern my mission parameters, I can do nothing to help them until FleetCom has made contact and I have transmitted my intelligence files. I understand this need. But I also understand the need for urgent action. These are my boys. My overriding responsibility, programmed at the deepest levels of my psychotronic circuitry, is to safeguard their welfare. I must help them.

I must.

I review the tactical situation in which my Dismount Teams are trapped. I find a potential solution. I move quietly toward the storage sheds where the colony has stored stacks of pipe.

My Commander speaks sharply. "We can't engage, Red. Not until FleetCom makes contact." The fluctuations in his voiceprint register extreme stress.

"Yes, Doug. I am making preparations to help our boys the moment I have transmitted Gunny's reports. I think I see a way to improve our chances of extricating them without directly engaging the Enemy."

"Let's hear it."