It didn’t matter where Santana was. Not at that particular moment, so the offi?cer chose to stay with Vanderveen as a pair of fi?ghters circled the camp and prepared to attack the POWs. So when the diplomat opened her eyes, it was the legionnaire she saw, walking at her side. Santana turned to look down at her, saw that her eyes were open, and took hold of her right hand. That hurt, but Vanderveen didn’t care, as the Ramanthian planes strafed the slowly twisting column.
But there was a price to be paid for attacking the war forms, as one of the Ramanthian pilots found out when a heat-seeking missile entered his port air intake and exploded. The fi?ghter came apart in midair, was consumed by an orange-red fi?reball, and transformed into metal confetti. Santana saw spurts of dust shoot up as pieces of debris landed around them and gave silent thanks as the badly mauled column made its way out onto the tarmac. “Pick up the pace!” he shouted. “Get in among those shuttles before the fi?ghters make another run!” There were four atmosphere-scarred shuttles parked next to the airstrip, and it was the legionnaire’s hope that the Ramanthian pilots would be reluctant to fi?re on them. The POWs responded as best they could, and the occasional rattle of gunfi?re was heard as Farnsworth and his detachment continued to mop up what remained of the airfi?eld’s security detail.
It wasn’t long before the cavalry offi?cer spotted Watkins and went over to kneel beside the body. The cyborg was lying on his back, staring sightlessly up at the sun, with a blue-edged hole between his eyes. Tragg, Santana thought to himself. The bastard is alive.
And as if to prove the offi?cer’s conclusion, there was a sudden burst of gunfi?re as one of the previously quiescent shuttles suddenly came to life and lifted off its skids. The copilot’s saddle-style seat was too uncomfortable to sit on, so Tragg had been forced to crouch next to the Ramanthian pilot. He aimed the gun at the bug’s head as a hail of bullets fl?attened themselves against the fuselage. “If I die, then you die, asshole. So get me out of here.”
Having seen his copilot gunned down in cold blood, the alien took the threat seriously and applied additional power. Thrusters roared as the shuttle gained speed and took to the air. The hard part was over, or so it seemed to Tragg, as Jericho’s surface fell away. Thraki ships were in orbit, or so he assumed, and the furballs would do just about anything for money. And, thanks to the heavy money belt strapped around the renegade’s waist, he could afford to pay. It was chancy, but Tragg was a gambler and always willing to place a bet. Especially on himself.
18
Never give up hope! Because when all seems lost, a hero will appear, and lead the way.
—Looklong Spiritsee
A Book of Visions
Standard year 1967
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Dark gray smoke billowed up from what had been Camp Enterprise, a muffl?ed explosion was heard as fl?ames found their way into the armory, and engines screamed as a shuttle clawed its way into the sky. Santana had no way to know who was aboard, but assumed some of the Ramanthians were making a run for it, and he swore bitterly. Because the combined force of rescuers and POWs were going to require two shuttles, and only two remained. “Speak to me, Bravo Six,” the offi?cer said into his lip mike. “And tell me that the rest of those ships are secure. Over.”
“Roger that,” Lieutenant Farnsworth replied. “We weren’t able to capture any Ramanthian pilots—but the swabbies claim they can fl?y these things. Over.”
“I sure hope they’re right,” Santana responded, as the tail end of the column passed by. “It’s my guess that the fi?ghters will receive permission to fi?re on the shuttles any moment now, so load them quickly. Over.”
“I’m on it,” Farnsworth replied. “My platoon will provide security until all of the POWs have boarded. Out.”
Conscious of how precious each passing second was, Santana threw himself into the process of getting the POWs onto the shuttles. For a while it seemed as if the offi?cer was everywhere, shouting encouragement and lending a hand whenever one was needed. Vanderveen could hear him even though she was strapped to a stretcher and took pleasure in the sound of his voice. Then Santana was there kneeling beside her and checking the straps that would hold the diplomat in place once the ship was airborne. The offi?cer smiled. “I went to your home, but you stood me up.”
Vanderveen looked up into his eyes. “I know I did—
and I’m very sorry. Did you get my note?”
Santana nodded soberly. “Your mother gave it to me.”
“Were you angry?”
“No,” the offi?cer replied honestly. “But I was disappointed. You owe me.”
“Yes,” Vanderveen agreed, as tears began to well up in her eyes. “I do. We all do.”
She would have said more, wanted to say more, but that was when Commander Schell came into view. If he thought the tête-à-tête was strange, he kept his opinions to himself. “We’re ready, Captain. . . . Or as ready as we’re likely to be.”
That was when Santana felt the vibration beneath his boots and realized the shuttle’s engines were running. “I’m glad to hear it, sir. Let’s load the rest of my team and get the hell out of here.”
Schell grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”
An additional fi?ve minutes were required to get Farnsworth and his people aboard the other shuttle and strap everyone in. Santana stood at the top of the ramp as the last T-2 lumbered aboard Ship 1. And, when he lowered his visor to get a look at the heads-up display, the offi?cer was shocked by what he saw. More than half of his thirty-person team had been killed on the surface of Jericho. The knowledge was suffi?cient to dampen any sense of jubilation the legionnaire might otherwise have felt as the ramp came up, and the shuttle wobbled into the air. It wasn’t easy for the navy pilot to manipulate the strange knob-style controls at fi?rst, but she soon caught on, and it wasn’t long before the ship began to gain altitude.
“Well done!” President Nankool said heartily as he appeared at Santana’s elbow.
“Thank you, sir,” the legionnaire replied as he reached up to grab a support. “I’m sorry it took so long—and I’ll be damned if I know where the pickup ships are.”
“Batkin fi?lled me in on the political aspect of this,”
Nankool said bleakly. “And it’s my guess that the mission was canceled. But that’s for later. We have a battleship to steal fi?rst!”
There was something infectious about the chief executive’s cheerful optimism, and it gave Santana an insight into how Nankool had been so successful in the past and why Vanderveen believed in him. Before the cavalry offi?cer could agree, however, both men were thrown to the deck as the pilot put the shuttle into a tight right-hand turn.
“Sorry about that!” a female voice said tightly. “But the bugs want to play. . . . So, hang on to your hats!”
Santana didn’t have a hat, but he had a helmet, which he clutched under one arm as he helped Nankool crawl over to a bulkhead where one of the more able-bodied POWs helped strap the chief executive down. And just in time, too, as the shuttle banked the opposite way and shook as it passed through the turbulence created by a Ramanthian fi?ghter. And so began an airborne game of cat and mouse as the Ramanthians attempted to shoot the hijacked shuttles down while the humans sought to clear the atmosphere, knowing that the conventional aircraft wouldn’t be able to follow. Of course space-going fi?ghters might very well attack the moment they entered space, but that couldn’t be helped, and the pilots could only cope with one problem at a time.