Nor had he offered any objections to the plan that Tychus put forward. Because with the exception of a scattering of officers like Sanchez, it was obvious that the entire command structure was made up of thieves who were working for thieves. And that was true of both sides of the conflict. So if there was a chance to steal from the thieves—then Raynor was happy to take part. And leave the military behind in the process.
All of the dropships were painted to look like Kel-Morian transports, and equipped with transponders and codes supplied by Vanderspool’s Kel-Morian friend. Raynor knew he should be worried, because Tychus claimed the scheme was foolproof, and the other man was better known for impulsive reactions than carefully thought out plans. But Raynor had to admit that the scenario was pretty straightforward, and simple plans usually worked best.
Having used Tychus’s connections to set up a sale of the ardeon crystals, all the Devils had to do was intervene at the right moment and load their ill-gotten loot onto one of the dropships. Then, rather than fly back to Confederate-held territory, they would put down in Free Port, a loosely governed city that sat astride the divide between Confederate and Kel-Morian territory. That was where the final transaction would take place.
Once in Free Port, and flush with money, it would be possible to take on new identities and book passage off planet. Not on a liner, since they didn’t serve Turaxis II anymore, but on a freighter. According to Tychus there were always captains willing to make some extra money carrying passengers the owners weren’t necessarily aware of.
Raynor’s thoughts were interrupted as Tychus came shuffling down the center aisle. The noncom was wearing what appeared to be Kel-Morian armor and a shit-eating grin that was visible through an open visor. “So, soldier,” he said in an attempt to imitate a gung-ho Quigby-type officer. “Are you ready to give your life for the Confederacy?”
“Yes, I am,” Raynor grated. “Right after I give yours.”
That got a laugh from those seated close enough to hear. “That’s the spirit!” Tychus said cheerfully. “Your parents would be proud.”
No they wouldn’t, Raynor thought, as the dropship droned on. They wouldn’t even recognize what their son has become.
The resocialized marines sat facing one another, eyes to the front, and backs to the bulkhead as the second dropship skimmed over the countryside below. Vanderspool sat just aft of the cockpit. It felt good to know that the marines would do whatever they were told without asking a single question. And if that meant they got killed, then so be it. Because they were criminals and sociopaths who had no place in decent society anyway.
As the pilot’s voice sounded in his helmet and the ship began to circle Korsy’s tiny starport, Vanderspool was under no illusions. He and his troops would have to fight in order to take control of both the city and the train station. Fortunately the town wasn’t that large and the opposition was going to consist of Kel-Morian guards who were paid to keep the local workers in line. The inhabitants were citizens of the Confederacy mostly, who had been captured when the KMs took over, and forced to work in factories and food processing plants.
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.”