Booly was where Tyspin had expected him to be—hard at work in his makeshift office. Message torps continued to arrive every few hours or so bringing an unending flow of intelligence, status reports, and a mind-boggling array of administrative work, which, if left undone, would soon bring the Confederacy’s armed forces to their knees.
A conference room table served as a desk. It was covered with printouts, half-consumed cups of coffee, the remains of a breakfast, and a computer-designed model of both the canyon and the Thraki complex. The legionnaire heard the knock, said “enter,” and looked up from his comp screen. “Thank god! A rescue mission!”
Tyspin grinned, spent a second wishing the other officer had never met Maylo ChienChu, and took a seat. “You were right, Bill. The Thrakies pulled up stakes. Do you still want to let them go?”
Booly nodded. “Yes, I do. Let ‘em run all the way to Zynig47. A constant stream of refugees will sap morale. Besides, there’s been enough dying. How’s the Blue Team? Did the Thrakies disengage?”
Tyspin shook her head. “No, the battle rages on.” Booty rubbed his temples. “Why? It’s pointless! We can leave a detachment and starve them out. Get McGowan on the horn ... tell her to break contact. And pass the message to SeebaKa.”
Tyspin stood. “Aye, aye, sir. Anything else?” Booly looked around him. “Yeah, tell the OOD to watch for the next inbound message torp, and blow it up.”
Lieutenant SeebaKa turned his back to the heavily armored hatch, heard Lasker yell, “Fire in the hole!”
and felt the air nudge him as the charge went off. The officer turned back, saw that the door hung askew, and waved what remained of his team forward. The Thraki had put up one helluva fight and forced the invaders to pay dearly for every foot of corridor, every intersection, and every hatch. Roughly half his force remained on their feet. The rest had been killed or wounded. The result was that the team was behind schedule, had failed to neutralize the enemy’s command and control computer, and hadn’t even seen the energy cannons much less attacked them. The Hudathan had failed, and the knowledge ate at the lining of his stomach.
There was the cloth-ripping sound of an assault rifle, a cry of “Blood!” and the team charged ahead. SeebaKa was third or fourth through the entry, wasted a fraction of a second thinking about the extent to which the Hudathans, humans, and Naa had learned to work together, and heard a tone through his earplugs. “High Horse to Red One ... Over.”
SeebaKa, who was still struggling to assimilate Confederate corn procedures, saw something move, fired a three round burst, and managed a reply. “This is Red One . Go. Over.”
The voice was hard and metallic. “Break it off, One.
Objective achieved. You can pull back.”
SeebaKa thought about the bodies left behind, the team he had come to be so proud of, and anger filled his chest. The swear words were part of his recently acquired vocabulary. “No frigging way. High Horse! We’ll break when the furry little bastards are dead! Over.”
A Thraki noncom popped out of a maintenance bay, shot Jamal in the back, and staggered as Lasker put half a magazine into the Marine’s chest.
SeebaKa roared his approval and charged the next set of doors. They were open, and he saw rock walls beyond. It was the chamber! His objective! Finally within reach. What remained of the team charged, limped, and in one case was carried out into the gallery. The rail had been designed by Thraki for Thraki. It hit the Hudathan at midthigh. The voice was louder this time and more insistent. “High Horse to Red One ... That is negative ... Repeat negative. Break contact immediately.”
SeebaKa took a long hard look around. The flight deck was empty—but the battle continued down on the canyon floor. He could heard the dull thump, thump, thump of outgoing cannon fire interspersed with the rattle of automatic weapons and a loud “boom” as a missile struck its target. Blue Team was taking a beating—that much was clear. If he could make his way down onto the floor below, If he could neutralize even one of the energy cannons, lives would be saved. Hudathan lives, Naa lives, and yes, appalling as the notion was, human lives.
The Hudathan waved his troops forward and opened the corn link. “Red One to High Horse ... Roger your last... contact broken.”
Booly was standing toward the rear of the makeshiftOpsCenter , talking to a naval intelligence officer, when the chief petty officer approached. She looked clean and almost unnaturally crisp. “Excuse me, sir, sorry to interrupt, but the lieutenant has something he wants you to see.”
Booly nodded, assured the intelligence officer that he would read the latest report ASAP, and followed the CPO to a bulkhead covered with flat panel displays. Some naval vessels had been designed to support ground actions, but the Gladiator wasn’t one of them. The wardroom had been converted to anOpsCenter , and everything had a temporary makeshift feel.
The lieutenant was young and earnest. He had dark hair, a nose that was slightly too large for his face, and a wire thin body. “Red One agreed to break contact... but look at this.”
Booty looked at screen, realized it was a trooper’s eye view of the Thraki military complex, and that his host was running. Not just running, but running toward a brightly lit entryway, flanked by a pair of alien energy cannons. Both batteries were depressed, to command the valley below, and both burped cold blue light. The name at the bottom of the frame read: “Corporal Sureseek Farcye.”
The naval officer saw the glance and pointed to an enormous body that lumbered along the right side of the frame. “That’s Red One, sir. Lieutenant SeebaKa. We don’t have compatible cameras for the Hudathans yet.. .but that’s him all right... What should we do?”
It was a good question. SeebaKa had chosen to disobey a direct order—but one that Booly now realized was wrong. “Is Blue One online? Show me her video.”
The lieutenant nodded and pointed. “Yes, sir. She’s right there.”
McGowan looked up into the slowly twirling snowflakes, saw the energy cannons burp, and watched geysers of mud sullied snow march her way. “Put some more SLMs on those guns’ Take the bastards out!”
Missiles, all of which had been fired prior to her order, hit only fractions of a second apart. The Thraki energy screens flared, shimmered like silver, and faded as the force of the explosions dissipated. A quad exploded, an entire squad was cut down, and McGowan yelled through the link. “I want some air support damn it—and I want it now! Where’s the Red Team? We’re dying out here.”
Booly gripped the back of the chair with both hands and knew it was too late. Blue One was so far up the canyon, so close to the target, that an air strike would hit her, too.
“What about Lieutenant SeebaKa?” the naval officer persisted. “What should I do about him?”
“Pray the insubordinate sonofabitch makes it,” Booty grated, because he’s the only hope we have.”
Vice Admiral Haru Ista Rawan stepped away from energy cannon number two, raised the assault weapon, and thumbed the safety into the “off position. The four remaining members of the security team did likewise.
The Thraki officer could see the oncoming soldiers, could feel the wind at his back, could smell the ozone that swirled around him. The force field caused his fur to stand on end, and his bladder felt unnaturally full. This was it, the last moment of his life, and the end of the journey. At least, the officer thought to himself, I will die with my face to the enemy. His weapon chattered, others did likewise, and the world ceased to be.
“Blow those emplacements!” SeebaKa ordered, waving his team forward. “There’s no point in saving ordinance—pack every charge you have around those hatches.”