A Fighting Chance (2 page)

Santana gripped the armrests of his chair more tightly as a saw-toothed mountain range appeared in the distance, and the TACBASE flew straight toward it. The so-called drop box was equipped with steering jets and repellers. But it didn’t have engines—and it couldn’t climb. So, as the mountains rushed at them, Santana wondered if they were about to die before the mission really began. He could see gaps between the jagged peaks, but none was wide enough to accommodate the flying fortress. It was a struggle to maintain his outward composure as the final seconds of his life ticked by. He thought about Christine Vanderveen, wondered where she was, and how the news would affect her.

Then, without warning, the flying disk flipped over onto its side, slipped between two neighboring pinnacles of rock, and righted itself again. “Holy shit,” Dietrich said. “I hope this thing lands soon. I need some fresh underwear.”

“I think you’re going to get your wish,” Ponco observed, as foothills gave way to thick forest and the TACBASE continued to lose altitude. “But Baynor’s Bay wasn’t much before the war, and I doubt things have improved much.”

The flying fortress was only three hundred feet off the ground by then. Santana saw what might have been a plantation, a stretch of dirt road, and a distant hill. Within a matter of seconds, the disk passed to one side of the elevation and flew over a sprawl of one-, two-, and three-story buildings. Then the drop box flashed out over Baynor’s Bay before circling back for a landing. “TACBASE-011767 is taking fire,” the computer said emotionlessly, as the hull shuddered.

“Contact the Baynor’s Bay port authority,” Santana ordered. “Give them the recognition code and order them to cease fire. All personnel will prepare for a crash landing followed by surface combat.”

“That message was sent,” the computer responded, “and a confirmation was received. But TACBASE-011767 continues to take fire.”

The flying fortress shook violently as a barrage of cannon shells and missiles slammed into it. But the durasteel hull was built to take a lot of punishment and did. “I’m trying to contact the locals as well,” Ponco put in. “But no luck so far.”

“TACBASE-011767 is running low on fuel and will have to put down within three minutes and seventeen seconds,” the computer announced. “Please designate a landing zone.”

Santana swore and made use of the small joystick on his armrest to scan Baynor’s Bay. Then, based on what he could see, he chose what millions of military leaders had chosen before him. And that was the high ground. “Put us down on top of that hill.”

“I have a contact,” Ponco announced, as the fortress passed over the town and neared the hill. “Or contacts. It seems there are
two
militia groups on the ground. One is ordering the other to stop firing.”

A couple of homes could be seen on top of the hill, along with a small water tank and the remains of a com mast. All of the structures disappeared as the computer triggered a dozen drop tubes—and an equal number of specially designed “weed cutters” laid waste to the hilltop. “That ought to get their attention,” Dietrich said darkly.

Suddenly, the main monitor went to black as the TACBASE was consumed by a rising cloud of smoke. There was a
thud
as the fortress landed. The deck tilted to one side but came level again as hydraulically controlled supports probed the ground, found solid footing, and made the necessary adjustments. Moments later, the computer began to drone its way through a status report. “Sensors, on. Ground defense system, on. Com system, on . . .”

But Santana wasn’t listening. He hit the release on his harness and was up on his feet by the time Ponco spoke. “I have a link with a Colonel Antov, sir. He says he’s sorry about the mix-up, but says everything is under control now. You are to report to him by 1600 hours local. He will provide transportation.”

Santana made a face. “Tell him I’ll be there.” There were a lot of things about the mission to O-Chi 4 that he didn’t like. And reporting to a militia colonel was at the top of the list. He had even gone so far as to appeal that part of the assignment to General Mortimer Kobbi on Adobe, where the company had been assembled. The older officer had been sympathetic but firm. “I hear you. But we don’t have a battalion of regular troops to drop onto O-Chi 4. So you’re going to need the locals to get the job done. And don’t forget . . . They know the place a lot better than you ever will.

“Plus,” Kobbi continued, “judging from his record, Colonel Antov was a reasonably competent officer before he left the marines to take over the family plantation. So it isn’t as if you’ll be reporting to the local pub owner or something. Have another drink. It’ll make you feel better.”

But Santana
didn’t
feel better as he and his staff left the command deck and made their way down a flight of metal stairs to the lower level where the Trooper IIs and bio bods were assembled. The four quads were too large to fit inside the TACBASE and were slotted into recesses in the hull. There was some comfort in knowing that their weapons, plus those controlled by the drop box’s computer, would be more than sufficient to repel most ground attacks.

Two corridors divided the main deck into four sections. They ran quad to quad across the hull. That meant the bio bods and T-2s could access the huge cyborgs in a matter of seconds.

Alpha Company was led by Captain Jo Zarrella, a combat veteran whom Santana had been lucky to get. The unit consisted of two platoons, each led by a lieutenant and a staff sergeant. A typical platoon included eight bio bods, eight T-2s, and a quad. But such numbers were deceptive because the total firepower possessed by a single platoon of highly mobile legionnaires was equal to an entire company of 175 foot soldiers.

A noncom yelled, “Atten-hut!” as Santana appeared, and all of the bio bods and T-2s crashed to attention. Some were veterans, but all too many of the legionnaires were barely out of advanced infantry training and green as grass. That included some of the seven-and-a-half-foot-tall Trooper IIs. They had a vaguely humanoid appearance, but form follows function, and there was no mistaking their arm-mounted machine guns and laser cannons for anything other than what they were. Some of the T-2s were criminals who had chosen life in a brain box over death. Others were the victims of accidents or, having been “killed” in action, had seized the opportunity to live on as cyborgs. Santana took the opportunity to say a few words. “At ease. Welcome to O-Chi 4. How do you like it so far?”

That produced some grins and a guffaw or two. Santana nodded. “The good news is that we were able to put down safely. The bad news is that even our friends are shooting at us. Fortunately, the friendly-fire problem has been resolved. But the bugs are only 150 miles away. So stay sharp.

“As you know, we were sent here to take part in a joint operation with a local outfit called the O-Chi Rifles. I will learn more about them when I report to Colonel Antov at 1600 hours. During my absence, Captain Rona-Sa will be in command—and it’s my guess he’ll find ways to keep you occupied.”

Everyone knew Rona-Sa was a stickler for maintenance, so the last comment elicited outright laughter from everyone except the officer in question. He lacked both the inclination and the capacity to smile. Dietrich had served under Santana for a long time and knew the pep talk was over. “Ten-hut!”

The troops came to attention. “Dismissed.”

“Sir?” As the troops began to disperse, Santana turned to find that his clerk, an earnest youth named Corporal Colby, was waiting to speak with him.

“Yes?”

“There is a vehicle and three militiamen waiting outside, sir. They’re from Colonel Antov.”

“Or so they claim,” Ponco put in as she drifted to a halt. Her sphere-shaped war form was covered with a mottled forest green paint job and equipped with two skeletal tool arms plus a variety of weaponry. “For all we know, they’re part of the group that was shooting at us. I think you should ride in a quad, sir.”

“I hear you,” Santana acknowledged. “But how would that look? We wouldn’t want the locals to think we’re scared. I’ll ride Sergeant Joshi. That should strike the right balance.

“Corporal Colby, if you would be so kind as to fetch my body armor and weapons, I’d be grateful.”

Colby took off at a trot, and Santana turned to Rona-Sa. “You know what we came here to accomplish, Captain. If I fail to return, carry on. Is that clear?”

It was the type of order that any officer should understand, but because Rona-Sa was a Hudathan, Santana knew the command would be followed regardless of cost. Even if it meant every man, woman, and cyborg in the unit had to die. The XO nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Fifteen minutes later, Santana was high on Joshi’s back with his harness fastened. A hatch whirred open, a ramp slid down to meet the rubble below, and the Trooper II followed it down to the smoking ground below.

From his position above and behind Joshi’s head, Santana could see the sturdy-looking ground vehicle that had been sent to pick him up. It was a boxy affair that consisted of an enclosed engine, a passenger compartment protected by a roll cage, and huge tires, which kept the car high off the ground. All three occupants were male, armed, and dressed in standard-issue camos. And, as Joshi carried Santana over to the all-terrain vehicle (ATV), the locals looked wary. Chances were that they had seen pictures of T-2s but never been exposed to the real thing. And Joshi
was
intimidating. “Good afternoon,” Santana said politely. “I’m Major Santana.”

The man in the front passenger seat was wearing a civilian bush hat. He stood, and thanks to the jungle buggy’s ground clearance, rose to the same level as Santana. The militiaman had a blocky build, black hair, and brown skin. His manner was friendly but guarded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m Captain Motu Kimbo. The colonel sent me to collect you. I was going to offer you a ride—but it looks like you brought your own transportation.”

“You lead, and we’ll follow,” Santana replied. “Let’s meet on channel two.”

After a quick radio check, Kimbo’s driver started his engine, put the ATV in gear, and executed a tight turn. Joshi could run up to fifty miles per hour without difficulty, but as Santana eyed the slope ahead, it didn’t seem likely that the cyborg would need to go even half that fast. A two-lane heat-fused road switchbacked down toward a jumble of pastel-colored buildings below. Some of the structures were intact, but many showed signs of blast damage or sat next to rubble-strewn craters. It didn’t require a military genius to figure out that the bugs had been by more than once.

With nothing to do other than compensate for the back-and-forth motion of the ride, Santana took the opportunity to scan his surroundings. One of the first things he noticed was a twenty-foot-high fence that followed the curve of the bay and was made out of metal beams. They had been welded together into self-supporting X-shapes that were dug into the ground. The obstacles stood shoulder to shoulder as if to protect local residents from something big. Ramanthian tanks? Or native life-forms? Having read up on O-Chi 4, Santana knew that some of the local triturators stood around fifteen feet tall, weighed up to eight tons, and had nasty tempers. So they wouldn’t be welcome in town. Or anywhere else for that matter.

Another thing stood out as Joshi and Santana followed the ATV through town. That was the way Baynor’s Bay’s townspeople came out to greet them. And no wonder since most had been witness to the TACBASE’s rather noisy arrival, not to mention the landing on the hill.

But as the road curved and followed the beach toward the southwest, most of the gawkers waved cheerfully, and a few were armed with Confederate flags. So if these people were friendly—who had attempted to bring the TACBASE down? It was an interesting question but one that would have to wait.

The ATV slowed, passed between a couple of stone pillars, and entered a curved drive. It led to a sprawling one-story house. The home was not only larger than most of the places Santana had seen but was perched on the edge of the bay, with a glorious view of the water. As both vehicles came to a halt under a portico, two native O-Chies hurried out to meet them.

The locals were about five feet tall and looked like animated skeletons. Large light-gathering eyes were located on both sides of their oval heads. That meant they could look in two directions at once. A rather useful adaptation for sentients who had reason to fear large carnivores. And as Santana freed himself from the harness, he saw that the indigs had three chevron-shaped nostrils centered in the middle of their faces. Their slitlike mouths were very wide, and if they had teeth, there was no sign of them as the nearest O-Chi spoke. The native’s voice had a soft, raspy sound. “Welcome to Bay House. The colonel is waiting.”

Santana got the impression that Antov didn’t like to wait for things; he ordered Joshi to stand by and held up a pocket com for the T-2 to see. The cyborg’s armor was painted forest green dappled with random ribbons of yellow. Like most vets, rows of bug skulls had been stenciled onto his slablike chest. One for each confirmed kill.

The noncom nodded a huge head. His computer-generated voice sounded like a rock crusher in low gear. “Just say the word, sir, and I’ll join the party.”

Santana grinned at the thought. “Thank you, Sergeant. That’s very comforting.”

As Santana turned toward the front door and made his way toward Kimbo, he could see the militia officer’s frown. “You look troubled, Captain . . . Is something wrong?”

“No, sir . . . But I’m afraid I’ll have to ask that you leave your weapons here. They will be kept under lock and key. The armor is up to you.”

Santana wasn’t pleased, but he understood. Trust had to be earned. So he slid the carbine off his shoulder and gave both it and his pistol to Kimbo, who placed them in a cabinet. The clamshell-style armor made a
thump
as it hit the floor. His helmet went on top. “Okay, Captain . . . At least I got to keep my pants. Please lead the way.”

The house had white walls, gleaming hardwood floors, and was furnished with beautiful O-Chi-made rattan furniture. But what immediately drew Santana’s eyes were the hundreds of animal trophies, both large and small, that glared down at him from every angle. Some had fur, and others were covered with scales. And because none of the creatures were familiar to him, Santana assumed all of them were native to O-Chi 4.