“Yes, of course,” Farber replied. Although it was clear that he couldn’t see the hulking T-2 as anything other than a piece of equipment.
“I was told to expect two people,” Santana said tactfully.
“Here I am,” a sandy-haired man in civilian clothes said, as he emerged from the bushes. “I was taking a leak. The name is Smith. Harry Smith.”
Something about the hard planes of Smith’s face, his well-worn body armor, and the businesslike submachine gun that he held across his chest screamed special ops. The kind of man who had worn a uniform at some point in the past and was way too savvy to reveal himself until he got a good look at whatever appeared out of the jungle. Santana nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smith. You’ll be riding Private McKay over there.”
Smith turned toward the T-2. “Thanks for coming out to fetch us, McKay. You volunteered for this mission if I remember correctly. What’s wrong? Are you crazy?”
The last was said with a grin, and Tena McKay laughed. It had a strangely feminine sound given the size and shape of her electromechanical body. “Sir, yes sir.”
Santana was impressed. It seemed that Smith had done his homework and then some. That meant the civilian was familiar with his background as well. Something to keep in mind during the days ahead.
“What about the pod?” Dietrich inquired as he gathered the parachute into an untidy bundle. “Should we leave it as is?”
The question was directed to Santana, but Farber chose to answer for him. “There’s no way to destroy the pod, so shove the chute inside and let’s go.”
Dietrich didn’t even glance at Farber. “Sir?”
Santana could see the writing on the wall. Farber had been sent to take command of the battalion in the wake of Antov’s death. But even though Santana knew that was to be expected, he felt a sense of loss because he’d come to see the O-Chi Raiders as belonging to him. Plus, there had been the secret hope that a replacement wouldn’t be available. He was careful to keep his voice professionally neutral. “You heard the colonel, Sergeant Major. Hide the chute and mount up.”
Dietrich did as he was told, and Santana saw what might have been a look of satisfaction flicker across Farber’s face. His authority had been questioned and affirmed. Everything was as it should be.
Once Farber and Smith were aboard their respective T-2s and properly strapped in, Ponco led the party back along the path taken before. They arrived at the encampment thirty minutes later. Farber jumped to the ground and turned away from the cyborg without so much as a thank-you. “So,” Farber said, as he looked around, “I know we’re in the jungle, but that’s no reason to tolerate laxness. Surely we can tidy up a bit, eh what? Maintaining a military appearance is critical to morale.”
Santana, who was standing a few feet away, felt a rising sense of anger. He thought the camp was very well organized thanks to Rona-Sa’s ceaseless efforts. But he knew that to say so would sound defensive. “Yes, sir.”
“We’ll tackle that later,” Farber said breezily. “Please pull your officers together. I have some announcements to make.”
By that time, Santana was positive that Farber had been sent to take command. A development that would make him Farber’s XO. But rather than share his orders with Santana first, as most commanding officers would, it appeared that Farber was going to tell everyone all at once. Was that an intentional slight? Or a matter of personal style? There was no way to know. “Yes, sir,” Santana replied. “I’ll have Corporal Colby track them down.”
“Ten minutes,” Farber said sternly, as he produced his pipe. “Time is critical.”
Santana already knew that. Or thought he did. And wondered what sort of news Farber was about to deliver. Twelve minutes later, all the officers were gathered in the muddy headquarters area. Some stood and some sat on gear boxes as Farber eyed their faces. “Good afternoon. My name is Colonel Max Farber. I was sent to O-Chi 4 to take command of this battalion in the wake of Colonel Antov’s unfortunate death. As a result, Major Santana will assume the role of Executive Officer-and Captain Rona-Sa will take on the responsibilities of the S-3 or operations officer. Both appointments are effective immediately.”
“Now,” Farber said, “let’s talk about the task before us. It’s my duty to inform you that the time frame for this mission has changed. I believe the orders issued to Colonel Antov called for him to capture or destroy the Ramanthian STS cannon ‘as soon as practically feasible.’ Or some mumbo jumbo to that effect. Now, based on strategic necessity, a hard deadline has been imposed. Mr. Smith… Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain.”
Smith had been seated on a box of ammo. As he stood, his blue eyes swept the group. “I assume most of you are aware that the bugs are in the midst of a population explosion so significant that they were forced to acquire more real estate. In the simplest terms possible, that’s why we’re fighting the bastards.”
Santana was watching from the back row. What was Smith’s role anyway? Subject-matter expert? Or a minder sent to keep an eye on Farber? Time would tell.
“And making the situation even more difficult for them,” Smith continued, “is the fact that newly hatched Ramanthians can be very destructive. So much so that the bugs don’t want them on Hive and plan to raise them on nursery planets. Jericho is a good example of that. Having gained control of the world, the chits planted hundreds of thousands of eggs there. And when the nymphs hatched, they ran wild. You can ask Major Santana about that. He led a successful mission to rescue President Nankool from a POW camp there.”
All eyes swiveled to Santana. Including those that belonged to Colonel Farber. Some of the officers were aware of the mission, and some weren’t. But judging from Farber’s frown, he was cognizant of Santana’s combat record and how it compared to his own.
Santana felt a sense of relief as Smith continued, and all of the heads turned back. “So one way to cause the enemy grief, and force them to divert critical resources away from our core worlds, is to launch attacks against Ramanthian nursery planets. And that’s what we’re going to do.
“In twelve days, a group of Confederacy vessels will assemble at the O-Chi jump point and depart for bug-controlled space. That means that if the STS cannon on Headstone is still operational, the ships will be sitting ducks. But that won’t happen because this battalion is going to destroy it.”
Farber nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Smith. I’d say that sums things up rather nicely. The ‘so what,’ as they say, is that you and your troops will no longer be able to dillydally. From this point forward, we will march day and night toward our objective, taking only those breaks that are absolutely necessary. So it will no longer be possible to establish elaborate camps like this one. But do not fear… The battalion will still be able to defend itself.”
Farber waved his pipe like a wand. “Company commanders and staff will remain. Platoon leaders will rejoin their troops and prepare to depart at 1800 hours local.”
Once the platoon leaders had departed, Farber took up the next item on his agenda. His eyes sought Santana and found him. “The plans submitted by Colonel Antov called for a direct assault on Headstone. That, in spite of the disastrous attempt to dislodge the Ramanthians shortly after they put down. Is that correct?”
Santana nodded. “Yes, sir. Although we…”
Farber dismissed what Santana was about to say with a wave of his pipe. “Save that thought, Major. We’ll come back to it. First, I want to share the new plan. Rather than attack Headstone, we’re going to destroy the geothermal tap that provides the facility with power. That will be faster and prevent unnecessary casualties.”
Santana raised a hand and spoke without being called on. “Excuse me, sir… We considered that approach and ultimately decided against it.”