“So, here’s the problem,” he continued. “The flaw in Vanderspool’s plan is that once we blow the shock wall, the POWs won’t come pouring out. Partly because they won’t be expecting us—and partly because at least some of them will be in bad shape. And loading them will take a long time. Maybe too long. The Hellhounds will be on us by then. How long can the Avengers hold them off?”
“This all makes sense,” Tychus allowed, “but I’ll be damned if I know what we can do about it. Of course you do, or think you do, which is why you’re buying the booze.”
“As it happens I do have something in mind,” Raynor agreed lightly. “And it goes like this: I want to drop into the area one day early. I’ll enter the POW camp, mingle with the prisoners, and help them get organized. Then, when the platoon falls out of the sky, they’ll be ready to go.”
There was a moment of silence as Tychus emptied his glass, followed by a solid thunk as he put it down. Then, having wiped off his lips with the back of one hand, he belched. “That,” Tychus proclaimed, “is one of the worst ideas I have ever heard! Have you been shooting some of Doc’s crab?”
Raynor glanced at Doc, whose attention was still somewhere far, far away. “What’s wrong with it?” he demanded defensively.
“I’m glad you asked,” Tychus replied. “First, if anything goes wrong with your jump, the entire mission could be compromised. Second, how the hell would you enter the camp, supposing you’re lucky enough to survive the landing? And third, what if you succeed, and Colonel Vanderscum scrubs the mission?”
“Yeah,” Doc put in vacantly. “That would suck.”
“It certainly would,” Raynor conceded. “But given the fact that Speer is still on the job, I’m pretty sure our little outing is good to go.
“And as far as how I’m going to land and get inside the camp, I got that idea when our scouts captured a KM Hellhound pilot yesterday. He was shot down over the disputed zone—they’re holding him on the base.
“All you have to do is get the colonel to put a lid on the news that we have him. Then with help from the intel people, I’ll put on a Kel-Morian flight suit, stroll up to one of the gates at KIC-36 and show them some very official-looking ID. Once they let me in, I’ll ask them for a ride back to my base. But, since it’s more than two hundred miles away, it’ll take them at least a day to arrange for transportation. Meanwhile, I’ll find a way to make contact with the POWs and warn them.”
Tychus looked Raynor in the eye. “Tell me something, Jim,” he asked skeptically, “because this all sounds completely crazy. What’s in it for you?”
Raynor was silent for a moment. “You might think this is bullshit… . But this mission is something I actually believe in. Something pure and clean, no underlying motives, no greed—these are our people, and they need our help. I want to bring them out. Maybe it sounds stupid, but this is what I had in mind when I joined up.”
Tychus eyed him cynically. “Vanderspool wants to make general. What’s so pure and clean about that?”
Raynor shrugged. “It doesn’t matter so long as the prisoners escape.”
“Okay,” Tychus said reluctantly. “I’ll tackle it first thing in the morning. In the meantime, go grab some more drinks. All this talking is making me thirsty.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“As the Kel-Morian engagement marches toward its fourth year, we have received several reports of heightened criminal activity in the civilian sector. Although some analysts blame this new wave of lawlessness on the dynamics of a wartime economy, the consensus among Confederate pundits is that this criminality represents the exposure of certain portions of the citizenry. One analyst, who asked to remain anonymous, said, ‘It is our belief that patriotism shows its true colors in times of hardship.’”
FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
The sun was still rising, the air was crisp, and Tychus was in a good mood. Much to Tychus’s amazement, Colonel Vanderspool liked Raynor’s proposal. That made sense in a way, because the battalion commander wanted the mission to succeed, but Tychus was so cynical about officers in general—and Vanderspool in particular—that the green light was a surprise.
So Tychus was on his way from the command center to the building where the KM pilot was being held, when he saw someone he had never expected to see again: Sam Lassiter.
Somewhere along the line the soldier had undergone a near miraculous transformation. Rather than the rebellious, unkempt figure that Tychus had last seen being escorted out of the rock quarry by armored guards, this Lassiter had short hair, was clean-shaven, and wore a uniform so perfect it looked like something straight out of a recruiting video. The soldier cut across Tychus’s path but paused when his name was called. “Hey, Private Lassiter,” Tychus said. “The last time I saw you was at MCF-R-156. I’m surprised they let you out after what you did to Bellamy.”
Lassiter’s eyes were blank. “MCF what? Bellamy? I don’t understand. You must have me mixed up with someone else.”
“I don’t think so,” Tychus replied, as he eyed the private’s nametag. “You don’t remember the quarry, the box … attacking Sergeant Bellamy?”
Lassiter was clearly aghast. “Attack a sergeant?” he said disbelievingly. “You must be joking. I would never do something like that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m due at the command center in five minutes and I don’t want to be late.” And with that he walked away.
Tychus turned to watch him go. Besides the fact that the guy was completely delusional, there was something weird about Lassiter’s demeanor … something that reminded him of the overly courteous admin clerk, the bright-eyed sentries assigned to keep Vanderspool safe, and something the colonel had said: “… if you think hard labor was bad, you can only imagine what else we’re capable of. You might just end up a prisoner in your own body.” What did that mean, anyway? Had the Confederacy come up with a new program? A way to take a wild man like Lassiter and turn him into a human robot? There was no way to be sure, but as Tychus continued on his way, he had one more thing to worry about.
There were only three people aboard the dropship. The pilot, Feek, who was acting as jump master, and Lance Corporal Jim Raynor. Tychus had offered to come along and shove his friend into the abyss, but Raynor had declined.
Five extremely busy days had passed since his meeting with Tychus, and now, with Colonel Vanderspool’s blessing, Raynor was about to drop into Kel-Morian-held territory alone. It was a stupid, stupid thing to do, and he knew that now. But maybe, just maybe, the mission was a way to atone for stealing the trucks. And it was something he knew his parents would be proud of.
One thing was for sure—there would be no turning back, since the blacked-out transport was already over enemy territory. Raynor had taken the utmost care to learn everything he could about the Kel-Morian prisoner he would be impersonating. Fortunately, they were about the same height and had similar builds. Raynor had watched intelligence officers interrogate the pilot via a closed circuit feed, and had been given access to his personal property as well, which included the contents of his fone. So Raynor knew all sorts of things about Ras Hagar, including his wife’s name, how many children he had, and what kind of music he liked. Would it be enough? No, not if the Kel-Morians scanned his retinas, but there was little chance of that. From what the captured pilot said, they were so short on tech supplies, scanners were nearly impossible to find. All he had to do was play his role right, and there wouldn’t be any doubt as to who he was.