When Duty Calls lotd-8 Read online

  When Duty Calls

  ( Legion of the Damned - 8 )

  William C. Dietz

  When Duty Calls

  William C. Dietz

  ISBN: 1-4362-9054-6

  For Allison Elizabeth Dietz,

  in recognition of her courage, and determination.

  1

  The general who is skilled in defense hides in the most secret recesses of the Earth; he who is skilled in attack fl?ashes forth from the topmost heights of heaven.

  —Sun Tzu

  The Art of War

  Standard year circa 500 B.C.

  PLANET ORON IV, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  Captain Antonio Santana, Commanding Offi?cer of Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC, felt a noticeable jerk as the CF-10 Assault Boat fell free of the Troop Transport Cynthia Harmon and began a gradual descent toward the nearly airless planet below. The lightly armed landing craft was accompanied by four Dagger 184 aerospace fi?ghters. That knowledge brought the cavalry offi?cer scant comfort, however, because he knew that once his largely untried company hit the surface of Oron IV, the navy wouldn’t be able to do much more than cheer them on. Or mourn their deaths. Santana felt his body fl?oat up off the surface of the jump seat, or try to, but a six-point harness held him in place. Behind the offi?cer, back in the CF-10’s crowded cargo bay, sixteen space-armored bio bods and nineteen cyborgs shared the heady combination of fear and excitement that precedes any combat insertion. And this one was worse than most. Because not only was half the company fresh from basic training, and had never been in combat before, but the raid was the type of mission normally reserved for the Marine Corps. Except there was a shortage of jarheads at the moment—which was why the Legion had been ordered to stand in for them. Making a bad situation worse was the fact that Major Liam Quinlan had assumed command of the 2nd Battalion while Santana was on leave. And for some reason the new CO was determined to fi?nd fault with everything the offi?cer did, a fact that had become obvious to the entire company and made the veterans resentful.

  But Santana had dealt with diffi?cult commanding offi?cers before and been able to win most of them over by doing a good job. With that in mind, the cavalry offi?cer put all of his other concerns aside to focus on the task at hand. The pale orange planet seemed to swell as the CF-10 entered an atmosphere thick with methane, carbon dioxide, and nitrous oxide. Which was why the world was considered worthless, or had been until recently, when the war between the Ramanthian Empire and the Confederacy of Sentient Beings had begun. Suddenly everything was in fl?ux as old enemies became new friends, a new faster-than-ship communications technology began to reshape the way future wars would be fought, and planets like Oron IV were suddenly signifi?cant. Not as places for people to live, but as strategic jump points, where supplies could be pre-positioned for battles yet to come. Because, as Military Chief of Staff General Bill Booly liked to point out, supplies are the lifeblood of any army. Which, assuming the intelligence people were correct, was why the insectoid Ramanthians had chosen to establish a presence on Oron IV, a planet that lay well within the Confederacy’s gradually shrinking borders, was generally inhospitable to life, and rarely received visitors. All of which made it the perfect place for the bugs to hide a whole shitload of supplies while they got ready for the next big push. “Are you sure the chits are down there?” the copilot inquired dubiously. “There are no signs of electronic activity so far. . . . Maybe they went home.”

  “That would be nice,” Santana replied over his suit radio.

  “But odds are the bastards are lying low. That’s what I would do if I were them.”

  All radio communications were being routed through the company-level Integrated Tactical Command (ITC) system, which meant that Major Quinlan could monitor the company’s progress from the well-padded comfort of the Harmon’s Command & Control Center (C&C) and participate in any conversation he chose to. “I don’t think any of us care what you would do if you were a Ramanthian,” Quinlan commented caustically. “So, stow the bullshit, and stick to your job.”

  The copilot looked back over her shoulder as if to apologize, and Santana shrugged, as if to say, “Don’t worry about it.”

  Meanwhile, back in the cargo bay, Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich frowned. The hollow-cheeked noncom had served with Santana before. First on LaNor, where a consortium of off-world governments had been forced to battle the Claw, and then on Savas, where elements of the 1st REC took part in a raid that required them to traverse hundreds of miles of hostile territory. So Dietrich not only knew what the cavalry offi?cer was capable of, but was familiar with Santana’s combat record, which included two Medals for Valor and a Distinguished Service Cross. Complete with a newly added star. And, being a decorated veteran himself, Dietrich knew how divisive an offi?cer like Quinlan could be. Divisive, and if they weren’t careful, dead. Because it was the noncom’s opinion that every garden requires an occasional weeding. Both of the company’s quads were back by the loading ramp, where they could hit the ground fi?rst, backed by seventeen ten-foot-tall Trooper IIs, all of whom were clamped to the bulkheads, and fi?fteen bio bods, many of whom were looking at the “Top,” trying to gauge his reaction to Quinlan’s comment. Mindful of the fact that the major could hear anything he said, Dietrich grinned menacingly from behind his faceplate and aimed a one-fi?ngered salute up toward space. The legionnaires seated around the noncom laughed, and even though both of Santana’s platoon leaders witnessed the gesture, they were careful to ignore it. Partly because they had no love for Quinlan themselves, but mostly because they were afraid to get crosswise of the hard-eyed sergeant, and the veterans who were loyal to him. The net effect was to break the tension and simultaneously restore the company’s confi?dence in Santana. Because if Dietrich had faith in the captain, then it was obvious that they should, too.

  The assault boat and its sleek escorts bucked their way down through multiple layers of turbulent gas until they could skim the planet’s arid surface. There wasn’t much to see other than frequent outcroppings of gray rock, dry riverbeds, and occasional forests of what looked like petrifi?ed trees. Then, after ten minutes or so, the landing craft’s boxy shadow rippled over the only man-made structures on the planet’s surface. The complex consisted of a rusty dome, a clutch of globular tanks, and a sand-drifted landing pad. The words “Madsen Mining” were still legible on the cracked duracrete if one looked hard enough. The entire facility was nestled within the open arms of three interlocking hills, which the map provided by Madsen Mining referred to as the Three Amigos.

  “Bingo!” the copilot said excitedly, as she stared at the readouts arrayed in front of her. “That sucker is radiating way too much heat. . . . It looks like the chits took over the mine! Maybe we should tell the Dags to bomb ’em.”

  “They’re too deep,” Santana replied wearily. “In fact, based on the schematic that Madsen Mining gave us, it looks like some of the major galleries are more than a thousand feet below the surface. Besides, there’s a war on, and some of those supplies could come in handy. . . . Put us down one mile to the west. Who knows what kind of weapons systems and booby traps the bugs have in place around the landing pad.”

  Quinlan’s response came so quickly it was as if he’d been waiting to make it. “That’s a negative Alpha Six. Why give the enemy time to prepare? You will land on the pad—and do so immediately. Over.”

  The pilot looked back over his shoulder as if to say,

  “What now?”

  Santana swore under his breath. He’d been hoping to avoid confl?ict, but if that was what it was going to take to protect his legionnaires, then that’s the way it would have to be. “Alpha Six to Zulu Six. I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a lot of inte
rference down here, and you’re breaking up. Over.”

  The pilot grinned as Quinlan began to rant and rave.

  “You’re lying, Santana. . . . And disobeying a direct order!

  I’m going to—”

  But whatever the major was going to do was forever lost as the copilot fl?icked a switch, and the relay went dead.

  “Sorry, sir,” she said, knowing that the fl?ight recorder would capture her words. “It looks like we have some sort of com problem.”

  “See what you can do with it,” the pilot replied calmly, as he brought the boat’s nose up and fi?red the repellers. “I have a ship to land. Thirty to dirt . . .”

  Santana was already up out of his seat and making his way back into the cargo bay when the assault boat’s skids thumped down, the rear hatch whirred open, and the entire ship shook as Private Ivan Lupo lumbered down the ramp onto Oron IV’s reddish soil. The cyborg stood twenty-fi?ve feet tall, weighed fi?fty tons, and was supported by four massive legs. It was no accident that the so-called quad was the fi?rst legionnaire to hit dirt, because not only were Lupo’s sensors superior to those carried by the bipedal Trooper IIs (T-2s), but his gang-mounted energy cannons were more than a match for anything up to and including a Ramanthian battle tank. Not that Alpha Company was likely to encounter enemy armor on a backwater crud ball like Oron IV. Of course Lupo knew that “. . . assumptions can get you killed.” That’s what he and his buddies had been taught back in basic, and having already been executed for murder, the ex-con had no desire to die again. Not so soon at any rate.

  Lupo assumed a defensive position about a hundred yards west of the landing craft, as Private Simy Xiong exited the ship and took up a similar position off to the east. As the second quad settled over her legs, Santana sent First Lieutenant Lucy Amoyo’s platoon out to secure the rest of the perimeter. For many of the legionnaires it was the fi?rst time they had set foot on a potentially hostile planet, so even though there weren’t any visible signs of life, the entire outfi?t was amped. Amoyo, one of the few members of Alpha Company who had seen combat, was no exception as she rode her ten-foottall T-2 out onto Oron’s arid surface. From where the offi?cer stood, high on the cyborg’s back, she had an excellent fi?eld of vision. More than that, she was free to focus most of her attention on the fi?rst platoon rather than negotiate the raw terrain. That chore fell to Sergeant Amy Matos, formerly Corporal Amy Matos, who had been killed in action two years previously, and given a chance to re-up as a cyborg. Which was really no choice at all since Matos couldn’t afford even the cheapest cybernetic civbod, a vehicle that would allow her to look human even if certain biological functions were forever lost to her.

  So Matos brought her weapons systems to condition-fi?ve readiness and cranked her sensors to high gain, as she circled the newly created perimeter. The cyborg could run at speeds up to fi?fty miles per hour, operate in Class I through Class IX

  gas atmospheres, and fi?ght in a complete vacuum if necessary. And, thanks to her fast-recovery laser cannon, air-cooled .50-caliber machine gun, and optional missile launchers, the T-2’s fi?repower equaled that of eight fully armed bio bods. Having completed a full circuit of the perimeter, and being satisfi?ed with the way her troops were positioned, Amoyo ordered Matos to pull up. “Alpha One-Six to Alpha Six. Over.”

  Had Santana felt free to do so, he would have been the fi?rst bio bod off the ship. But the entire company was watching, and the offi?cer knew he couldn’t disembark with the fi?rst platoon lest the action be interpreted as a lack of faith in Lieutenant Amoyo’s judgment. And, given the fact that she was his executive offi?cer (XO) as well as the senior platoon leader, it was important to build her rep. So, Santana was standing in the cargo bay, monitoring the heads-up display (HUD) on the inside surface of his visor, when the call came in. “This is Six,” Santana replied calmly. “Go. Over.”

  “The landing zone is secure, sir,” the platoon leader reported fl?atly. “Over.”

  “Roger, that, One-Six,” Santana replied. “Keep your eyes peeled. Out.”

  Based on previous experience, Santana knew that his other platoon commander, a young second lieutenant named Gregory Zolkin, had a tendency to be excessively wordy where his reports were concerned. He hoped the untried offi?cer had been paying attention to Amoyo’s succinct style as the two of them made eye contact. Both were sealed inside full body armor, so what might have otherwise been a casual interchange was made more formal by the need to use radio procedure, which was required whenever a conversation took place on the company-level push.

  “Alpha Six to Bravo One-Six,” Santana said. “Based on the amount of heat that’s escaping from the mine shaft, there’s a very real possibility that the bugs are hiding out below, waiting to see if we’ll go away. You and I will take the fi?rst squad and knock on the front door. Meanwhile, Alpha Six-Two will take the second squad and circle around behind the hills. His job will be to locate the back door. And believe me—there is one. Do you have any questions? Over.”

  Zolkin had lots of questions. Not the least of which was would he make an ass of himself, shit his suit, or get killed?

  But, being unable to actually ask those questions, the lieutenant gave the only answer he could. “Sir, no, sir. Bravo One-Six out.”

  Santana hadn’t discussed the plan with Dietrich in advance, but such was the relationship between the two men that the noncom had anticipated such an assignment, and was ready for it. Because if a substantial number of chits were allowed to surface in the wrong place, the results could be disastrous. And rather than download the task to Zolkin, Santana had given the job to his company sergeant, knowing Dietrich had more than enough experience to handle it. “Okay,” Santana said evenly. “Let’s hit the dirt. Six out.”

  More than a thousand feet below Oron IV’s harsh surface, Subcommander Sig Byap sat within a pressurized chamber and watched the Confederacy ship lift. It was just what he’d been hoping for, except that rather than take the alien soldiers along with it, the reentry-scarred vessel had deposited them on the surface, where the ugly-looking creatures were pumping air into a fi?eld hab.

  The Ramanthian swore as the assault boat hovered for a moment and stirred up a vortex of dust before crossing the defensive perimeter and accelerating away. Then, as a large knot continued to form in his belly, the offi?cer watched a four-legged cyborg turn and “look” his way. Missile racks appeared along both sides of the quad’s hull—and there was a momentary fl?ash of light as one of them fi?red. Camera 36 went dark a fraction of a second later. Having missed the carefully concealed surcams during initial sweeps of the area, it appeared that subsequent efforts had been more successful, as 92 percent of Byap’s surveillance devices were taken offline. That meant the eggless scum knew about the subsurface storage facility and intended to capture or destroy it, which the degenerates would very likely be able to accomplish thanks to the amount of fi?repower they had. However, given that Byap was a sworn member of the Nira, a fanatical group of offi?cers for whom surrender was unthinkable, there was only one choice: fi?ght to the death. Not something Byap lusted after the way some Ramanthians did, but a perfectly acceptable outcome given the needs of his people. Because with fi?ve billion newly hatched citizens to care for, the empire was in need of everything. Especially real estate. Which was how the war had begun—and why he and his troops were about to die.

  The Ramanthians preferred to live underground, so while somewhat monotonous, life inside the mine had been acceptable up until that point. Video screens, most of which had been rendered dark, covered a rocky wall. They were fronted by a curved control console, fi?ve saddle chairs, and the same number of technicians.

  Byap was seated behind them, and swiveled around to face a heavily armed fi?le leader named Beeb Nohar. Having responded to the general alarm, the offi?cer was dressed in powerassisted space armor that would not only protect the soldier from a complete vacuum, but enable him to rip a legionnaire’s head off should that be necessary. The helmet that
Nohar held clutched in the crook of his right arm incorporated side-mounted black portals through which his compound eyes would be able to see, and a hook-shaped protuberance designed to accommodate his parrotlike beak. The fi?le leader listened impassively as Byap spoke. “The automatic defenses located in the vicinity of the main lock won’t be suffi?cient to stop them,” the subcommander predicted. “Confront the animals in the main corridor and show no mercy. I will take File Two, exit through the escape shaft, and attack the troops on the surface.”

  The plan made sense, given the circumstances, even though it couldn’t possibly succeed. But both of Nohar’s mates had been killed on Infama VI, and he was eager to join them in paradise. “It shall be as you say,” the fi?le leader agreed stoically, and came to the Ramanthian equivalent of attention. Byap stood. “You are a fi?ne offi?cer,” the subcommander said feelingly. “The Queen would be proud. Dismissed.”

  Once Nohar was gone, and the technicians had been released to rejoin their units, Byap shuffl?ed over to the control console, where he removed the wafer-shaped device that dangled from his neck and slipped the object into a waiting slot. A gentle whir could be heard as a remote appeared, and the offi?cer took possession of it. There wasn’t a single member of his command who wasn’t aware of the strategically located demolition charges that had been pre-positioned throughout the mine. But being aware of a potential calamity, and knowing it’s about to occur, are two different things. So the offi?cer thought it best to pocket the device when none of his subordinates were present to see him do so. Especially given the fact that once the charges went off, the entire mine would collapse, killing everyone inside.

  From all appearances it looked as if someone or something had bypassed the dome’s heavy-duty lock by hacking a huge hole in the habitat’s metal skin. The Ramanthians? Possibly, although Santana had his doubts, as Sergeant Omi Dekar carried him through the ragged opening. There wasn’t much to see as the T-2’s headlight swept back and forth across the nearly empty interior. In fact, it looked as if the place had been gutted years before. By humans most likely, looking to strip the mothballed facility of electronics, or anything else that could be sold on the black market.