But Vanderspool knew it would be a mistake to underestimate the Kel-Morians, who were bound to be well-armed. The key was to drop in unexpectedly, take their leadership out as quickly as possible, and hit the rest of them hard.
Such were Vanderspool’s thoughts as the ship flared in for a landing and the ramp went down. He made eye contact with Lieutenant Fitz, the officer in command of the resocialized marines, and the other man nodded. His people were ready. All of them were equipped with black armor so that anyone who saw them would assume they were Kel-Morian troops.
Confident that everything was proceeding according to plan and that there weren’t any hostile troops waiting for him below, Vanderspool made his way down the ramp and onto the tarmac. His visor was open so he could see the lead gray sky, the fuel tanks located a few hundred feet beyond the starport, and the factories beyond. Meanwhile, other dropships were landing further out.
A jitney had pulled away from the low-lying terminal building and was coming out to meet him. That was to be expected, given the circumstances, and Vanderspool waited patiently as the vehicle drew up and two men hopped out. They wore black berets, mismatched uniforms, and symbols of rank Vanderspool had never seen before. Were they mercenaries? Or the equivalent of prison guards?
The one on the left was tall and thin. He had heavy brows, half-lidded eyes, and prominent cheekbones. The other man was of average height and equipped with a bulbous nose covered with a tracery of broken veins. And, judging from his expression, he was upset. “Who are you?” he demanded aggressively, as his eyes roamed Vanderspool’s armor, searching for some sign of the Kel-Morian unit to which the visitor belonged. “Why wasn’t I informed that you were coming?”
“My name is Stokes,” the Confederate officer lied. “And you are?”
“Overseer Dankin,” the man replied. “I am in charge of both the starport and the town of Korsy.”
“Excellent,” Vanderspool said cheerfully, as he brought a gauss pistol out from behind his back and shot Dankin between the eyes. “You’re just the man I’m looking for.”
The second Kel-Morian flinched as a look of surprise appeared on Dankin’s face and he fell over backward. The flat crack of the report sent a flock of birds up off the starport’s control tower, where they circled for a moment before landing again. The empty casing pinged as it bounced off the tarmac.
Vanderspool’s pistol was aimed at the other man by then. The Kel-Morian’s lips were moving but no sound came out. Vanderspool smiled engagingly. “I could use a guide… . Would you be interested in the job?”
The security officer nodded jerkily.
“Perfect,” Vanderspool said. “Please be so kind as to surrender your sidearm and tell me all about the town of Korsy.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Sometimes one rocket isn’t enough to solve a problem. That’s why I carry eight.”
THE TOWN OF KORSY, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
In the wake of Lieutenant Sanchez’s death Tychus had been named interim platoon leader, an unusual assignment for someone of his rank, but one he was happy with given what he knew to be Vanderspool’s real plan for the Heaven’s Devils. But Tychus had a plan of his own. One that would take care of Operation Early Retirement once and for all!
Sergeant Pinkham was in charge of the second squad. Both he and Tychus were about the same age, had the same larcenous instincts, and enjoyed a long-running love affair with Scotty Bolger’s Old No. 8. So once the other noncom was given the opportunity to hear from both Kydd and Zander, he’d been quick to bring his people in on the counterplot, rather than face the prospect of resocialization.
As the 1st platoon left the dropship for the tarmac below, Tychus turned toward the front of the ship. The pilot had his helmet off and turned to look as the noncom stuck his head into the cockpit. “We’re about to head out. Now, just to make sure you’ll be here when we return, please remove the security lock-out from under the instrument panel and hand it over.”
The pilot’s face turned red, and he was just about to go off on the noncom, when Tychus frowned disapprovingly. “Sorry, sir … I don’t have time to listen to your bullshit. Give me the lock-out or I’ll kill you. And don’t try to fake me out. I did my homework.”
The pilot’s face turned pale. He reached under the lower edge of the instrument panel and felt for the cylinder. Without the device it would be impossible to start the engines. Having found the lock-out, he gave it one turn to the right and felt it pop into his hand. An enormous gauntlet was waiting when he turned back. “Don’t lose it,” the pilot warned. “Because all of us will be stuck here if you do.”
“Roger that,” Tychus said approvingly, as he tucked the device away. “Now, unless I call you, stay off the comm. Private Haster is going to stay here and keep you company. Hand me your sidearm.”
“This is entirely unnecessary,” the pilot objected, as he complied with the noncom’s instructions.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Tychus replied. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
Tychus gave the pistol to Haster, cautioned the private to stay alert, and made his way down the ramp to where the rest of the platoon was waiting. Vanderspool arrived seconds later in one of the sabers that had been unloaded from the third dropship. Vanderspool jumped out onto the tarmac. “Lieutenant Fitz and I will take the marines to the train station,” Vanderspool said as he jumped onto the tarmac. “Your job is to sweep the west side of town, deal with any KMs you come across, and make sure the area is secure. Meet me at the lev station at 1330 hours and not a second later. Understood?”
“Sir, yes sir,” Tychus replied.
“Good. You have a suit comm… . Use it if you need to. Execute.”
Tychus saluted in the vain hope that an enemy sniper would see the gesture of respect and put a bullet through Vanderspool’s visor. But nothing happened as he turned to rejoin his platoon.
Having assigned all of the vehicles to the resocialized marines, Vanderspool, his Kel-Morian guide, and Lieutenant Fitz left the starport a few minutes later with a column of armored resocs double-timing along behind.
Tychus gave them a one-fingered salute as they left, waved his platoon forward, and led them west toward the low-slung food processing plants. The starport’s comm tower was topped with an array of sensors, as were the metal masts that stood at regular intervals, so Tychus knew someone was watching as they crossed the parking lot. Would they send a force of soldiers out to meet him? Or had the loss of their commanding officer thrown the Kel-Morians into a state of confusion?
The answer came quickly as a door opened and half a dozen unarmored soldiers spilled out into the parking lot, firing their slugthrowers. Tychus didn’t even slow down as the bullets pinged against his hardskin. He simply bowled two of the KMs over, knowing that the men behind him would handle the rest as he burst through the open door and entered the plant beyond.