A Fighting Chance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Ace Books by William C. Dietz

  Ace Books by William C. Dietz

  GALACTIC BOUNTY

  FREEHOLD

  PRISON PLANET

  IMPERIAL BOUNTY

  ALIEN BOUNTY

  McCADE’S BOUNTY

  DRIFTER

  DRIFTER’S RUN

  DRIFTER’S WAR

  LEGION OF THE DAMNED

  BODYGUARD

  THE FINAL BATTLE

  WHERE THE SHIPS DIE

  STEELHEART

  BY BLOOD ALONE

  BY FORCE OF ARMS

  DEATHDAY

  EARTHRISE

  FOR MORE THAN GLORY

  FOR THOSE WHO FELL

  RUNNER

  LOGOS RUN

  WHEN ALL SEEMS LOST

  WHEN DUTY CALLS

  AT EMPIRE’S EDGE

  BONES OF EMPIRE

  A FIGHTING CHANCE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

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  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2011 by William C. Dietz. Text design by Kristin del Rosario.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dietz, William C.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54537-9

  1. Space warfare—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3554.I388F54 2011

  813’.54—dc23

  2011032534

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Dearest Marjorie . . .

  Thank you for the journey,

  the things we experienced along the way,

  and the voyage ahead.

  1

  Some of the most important battles are the most obscure.

  —Hoda Ibin Ragnatha

  Turr truth sayer

  Standard year 2206

  PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  A pair of destroyer escorts popped out of hyperspace off O-Chi 4 where they were joined moments later by the combat supply ship Lictor. The vessel was nearly two miles long and carried a crew of more than a thousand. When fully loaded, the vessel could transport up to three million tons of cargo, including as many as eight disk-shaped TACBASEs. One such fortress was filled to capacity with the men, women, and cyborgs of Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC. It was about to drop into O-Chi 4’s atmosphere, and all of them were strapped in.

  Major Antonio Santana was seated in the op center on the top deck of TACBASE-011767, where he could see the video that was being fed to them from the Lictor’s bridge. He could see a large part of O-Chi 4, and the general impression was of a heavily forested planet, much of which was shrouded by clouds. Santana’s orders were to land, join forces with the local militia, and destroy a Ramanthian installation. That was how it was supposed to work. But such operations rarely went according to plan.

  Santana’s thoughts were interrupted as the image of O-Chi 4 was replaced with a head shot of the Lictor’s commanding officer. She had short gray hair, steely blue eyes, and high cheekbones. A retread most likely. One of thousands who had been brought out of retirement to battle the Ramanthians. She looked tired. “It’s been nice having you and your troops aboard, Major. I have no idea what you hope to accomplish down there but good luck. As you know, the bugs control about sixty percent of the surface and have for the last six months or so. A flight of CF-184 Daggers will keep the enemy fighters off your back. But once you drop through thirty thousand feet, they’ll break off and return to the ship. You’ll be on your own after that. Any questions?”

  “No, ma’am,” Santana answered stoically. “Thanks for the lift.”

  The navy officer smiled. “Anytime. Make sure your people are strapped in. It’ll be a rough ride.” And with that, the video monitors snapped to black, leaving the tech data to scroll.

  Santana turned to his Executive Officer. Captain Eor Rona-Sa was a 250-pound Hudathan who had been allowed to join the Legion despite the fact that his race had attempted to annihilate the Confederacy in the past. But the Hudathans had been defeated. And having failed to take what they needed, the big aliens were forced to join the same alliance they had previously sought to destroy.

  The decision to accept Hudathans into the Confederacy’s armed forces had been partly political but was a practical matter as well. The war with the Ramanthians wasn’t going well, and the Confederacy was in desperate need of soldiers. Especially good ones.

  Rona-Sa had a large head, a wide froglike mouth, and the vestige of a dorsal fin that ran front to back along the top of his skull. And when Santana looked into Rona-Sa’s eyes, he could tell that his XO was way ahead of him. “Are the troops strapped in?”

  “Yes, sir,” Rona-Sa rumbled. “I checked them personally.”

  “And the cyborgs?”

  “Secured, sir.”

  “Good. Thank you. Now all we need is a nap.”

  Sergeant Major Dice Dietrich was seated to Santana’s left. The comment might have been sufficient to elicit a chuckle from the hollow-cheeked noncom except that he was already asleep and snoring gently. An apparent lapse that would have earned him a tongue-lashing from another commanding officer. But Dietrich had served under Santana for many years and had certain privileges.

  Behind them, and strapped to D-rings set into the deck, was a recon ball. Her name was Lieutenant Sally
Ponco. Thanks to her special abilities, the cyborg could tap into the TACBASE’s circuitry and the Lictor’s so long as the vessels were connected. “The bugs are coming up to play,” she said laconically. “And the Dags are engaging them. Hang on . . . We are twenty from launch and counting.”

  The onboard computer began a countdown that could be heard in every compartment. And for reasons known only to the combat habitat’s manufacturer, the machine had a female voice. “Attention all personnel. TACBASE-11767 will launch in ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two . . .”

  The last was followed by a violent jerk as the self-contained fortress fell free of the Lictor and the influence of the supply ship’s argrav generators. Santana felt his stomach flip-flop as the artificial gravity disappeared and his body rose. The six-point harness held him in place.

  Then came a sudden jolt as the computer fired a combination of steering jets, and video blossomed on the monitors. The planet framed in the center monitor began to swell as the flying fortress entered the exosphere. After ten minutes of acceleration, the disembodied voice flooded the PA system again. “TACBASE-011767 is about to enter a planetary atmosphere. All personnel will remain in their seats with harnesses fastened until further notice.”

  “Here it comes,” Ponco predicted. And she was correct. Shortly thereafter, the hull began to vibrate, then rattle. Finally, it shook like a thing possessed as the flying fortress slip-slid down through heavy cloud cover. The battering continued for what seemed like an eternity but was actually less than half an hour.

  As Santana began to wonder if the trip would ever end, the disk-shaped hull steadied. Wisps of cloud blew away, and hundreds of square miles of verdant forest appeared on the monitors. The land was divided into asymmetric shapes by ribbons of blue that connected lakes with the sea. He could see that much. But the TACBASE was traveling too fast for him to discern very many details.

  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.