As a result of the ongoing conflict, a mile-wide swath of land along both sides of the river lay in ruins. Buildings had been bombed into rubble, streets were filled with fallen debris, and once-picturesque canals were blocked by half-submerged wrecks.
Along the banks of the river the remains of the city’s once-graceful bridges could be seen. Each had been different, but beautiful in its own way, which was why they had been known as “The Seven Sisters.”
All of them were lying in the river now. There was always less flow at that time of year, so that, combined with a drought up north, had caused the water level to drop to a record low. But occasionally a pile of debris would build up behind one of the spans, only to be broken by the weight of the water behind it, thereby releasing a momentary flood. And there, mixed in with all of the other trash that regularly came their way, the people who lived downstream would find hundreds of half-rotted bodies.
It was a public health problem, not to mention a gruesome sight, so they tried to sort them out at first. The idea being to bury Kel-Morians with Kel-Morians and Confederates with Confederates, both because it was assumed the opposing armies would want it that way, and as a sort of insurance policy—it wasn’t clear which side was going to win and therefore be in charge. But as things turned out, there were far too many bodies for the civilians to deal with, which meant they were forced to inter the dead soldiers in mass graves.
Such was the landscape as Colonel Vanderspool led Lieutenant Sanchez and her platoon through the once thriving streets of south Polk’s Pride to the edge of no-man’s-land. The office tower that loomed above them was still largely intact even though Kel-Morian sloths located on the far side of the river routinely used it for target practice.
Broken glass crunched under Raynor’s boots as Harnack said, “Whoa … check that out,” and pointed upward. The back end of a Hellhound could be seen sticking out of an office on the fire-ravaged twenty-sixth floor. Raynor wondered if the dead pilot was still sitting in his cockpit or had been removed by a graves registration team.
There wasn’t any power in the building, so they had to climb nine flights of stairs to reach Vanderspool’s objective. Since the enemy was on the opposite side of the river, the men hadn’t been required to wear full combat armor, so they were relying on their own strength. Tychus, who had never seen Vanderspool do much more than strut around Fort Howe, was surprised to learn that the officer could climb nine stories without breaking a sweat.
Finally, a fire door with the number 9 on it appeared, and Vanderspool led the platoon down a hall and into a trash-strewn office. A squad of marines was there waiting for them. When Master Sergeant Rockwell hollered, “Atten-hut!” all of them crashed to attention.
Rockwell was a man with whom Raynor and Tychus were well acquainted. As the battalion’s senior NCO, Rockwell had a lot of power and liked to use it. And there was something about the Heaven’s Devils that cracked him off, so his hobby was coming up with shit details for Tychus and the squad to take care of.
And now, as Rockwell’s squad stood in perfect alignment, with their backs ramrod straight, they could have been awaiting inspection. That was over the top, even for marines, especially in a combat zone. And as Raynor examined them more closely, he saw that they all wore the same thousand-yard stares, perfect uniforms, and spit-shined boots. The whole thing made him uncomfortable.
“At ease,” Vanderspool said, as if he were used to being received in that fashion. He gestured to the view. “Do you see the tower over there on top of the hill? The tall, skinny one?”
Raynor peered out the window to see the hillside across the river—a bleak, seemingly deserted cluster of buildings—upon which lay a tower surrounded by high walls.
“That comsat station marks the location of the Kel-Morian strategic resources repository,” Vanderspool continued. “Down below it there is a network of tunnels and caves where stocks of rare minerals are stored. If we can capture or destroy the repository the KMs will have to shut down their factories north of the city, their military units will begin to run short of critical supplies within a matter of weeks, and we’ll be able to push the bastards off Turaxis II! So this is a very important push.”
The shattered windows offered Raynor an unobstructed view of no-man’s-land, the much-abused river, and north Polk’s Pride. Like the sky overhead, the area beyond the river was unrelievedly gray. A few buildings still stood. They looked like headstones in a sprawling graveyard. Thready columns of black smoke marked the spots where Kel-Morian soldiers were camped in the ruins, or stubborn citizens eked out a bleak existence in spite of repeated efforts to force them out.
“The repository is our target,” Vanderspool continued grimly. “But, as you can imagine, the structure is well protected. Which is why it’s still vertical in spite of more than two dozen air strikes.” At that point the officer handed his binoculars to Zander with an order to pass them around.
“You’ll notice that the comsat station is surrounded by circular blast walls and protected by dozens of computer-controlled missile turrets. More than that, all of the approaches are defended by goliaths, regular comsat sweeps, and a squad of rippers. So getting inside won’t be easy. Questions?”
“Yes, sir,” Sanchez replied. “How large a force are we going to throw at the objective?”
“You won’t be alone, of course,” Vanderspool continued. “The entire battalion plus elements from other units will take part in the attack. Sergeant Rockwell’s people are going in first… . That means the unit will probably suffer heavy casualties. But, no guts, no glory. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir!” Rockwell said emphatically. “What’s your mission, soldiers?” he called out.
All of the rangers knew that the first people to go in stood a very high chance of getting killed, but if the marines realized that, there was no sign of it on their faces as they responded to the noncom. “To die for the Confederacy!”
That was when Raynor remembered the program Brucker had mentioned and realized something… . Judging from what Tychus had told him about Lassiter, and seeing the marines in front of him, he knew the Kel-Morian overseer was correct. Certain people were being brainwashed. What did they call it? Resocial something? Resocialized. That was it. No, neurally resocialized, and in considerable numbers, too. Was that what Raynor was supposed to be fighting for? A society in which citizens were transformed into flesh-and-blood robots?
“Sanchez, you and your platoon will advance immediately behind them. That’s why you’re here. As I said, this is not going to be easy, so that’s why I’ve brought on the best of the best.”
Raynor began to wonder. What was up with Vanderspool anyway? Was he trying to win the wars? Or make general in record time? Or was he simply determined to give the KMs a good whupping? There was no way to be sure as the tactical aspect of the briefing began. There was a lot for the platoon to learn—and only a few days in which to learn it. The clock was ticking.
It was raining. Not hard, but persistently, so that as Raynor stood at the edge of the roof of the building in which the battalion was temporarily headquartered, the lunch he had brought up from the field kitchen below was starting to get damp. But he didn’t care. Because with the exception of four lookouts, two missile turrets, and the birds who wanted to share his food, the huge expanse of roof was a place where he could be alone for a few minutes. And even feel homesick if he wanted to.