And there, with their backs to Santana, three humans could be seen. They were crouched behind a pile of cargo modules, firing at a group of Ramanthians who had taken cover behind a waist-high blast wall. “The bug pilots are waiting for someone,” Santana shouted. “A VIP of some sort, and Temo is trying to hijack his ride. Dietrich, watch our six. Ponco, circle around. See if you can enter the transport from the other side. Take control of it if you can.”
Dietrich turned back toward the ramp, and Ponco flew away as Santana raised his weapon. The CA-10 wasn’t a sniper rifle. Far from it. But the range wasn’t too bad, and he was a good shot. The key was to leave Temo alive.
He looked through the scope, selected the man on the left, and fired. The target toppled forward and collapsed. Temo was in the process of turning in that direction when the man to her right fell. Having realized where the fire was coming from, the renegade turned. Santana was waiting. The bullet flew straight and true. Temo’s left knee exploded in a spray of blood. She made a grab for it and fell over backwards.
Santana heard a couple of explosions as he ran forward, knew that Dietrich was taking care of business, and figured that the VIP was dead. Bullets whipped past his head as the Ramanthians fired at him. The projectiles sounded like angry bees.
Temo had managed to sit up by that time. She was trying to bring her weapon to bear on him when Santana arrived to knock it away. “Oh, no, you don’t!” he said, as the rifle clattered onto concrete. “Stay where you are.”
Then he was down behind the cargo modules as Ramanthian bullets hammered them. Temo pulled her belt loose and began to wrap it around her leg just above the knee. “I suppose you’re Alpha One,” she said through gritted teeth. “Congratulations. I don’t think Antov could have accomplished what you have.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Santana said, as he raised his visor. “Now tell me about the STS installation.”
“What do you want to know?” Temo said as she pulled the tourniquet tight.
“I want to know what kind of backup power supply they have.”
“Smart,” she said. “Very smart. What’s it worth to you?”
“Nothing,” Santana said coldly, as Dietrich arrived and ducked down beside him. “But you could save the other knee.”
Pain was etched into Temo’s face. Her eyes were locked with Santana’s. “You wouldn’t.”
“He would,” Dietrich put in, as a series of loud reports were heard from the direction of the transport. “If not, I’d be happy to do it for him.”
Temo closed her eyes and opened them again. “The head bug is a fanatical bastard named Commander Dammo. He has a fusion reactor on Headstone. Chances are that he could fire two or three shots without using power from the geo tap.”
Santana felt his spirits fall. He’d been hoping that if the power plant went off-line, the STS cannon would be rendered useless. “This is Alpha One-Three,” Ponco said over the radio. “The transport is ours. Over.”
“Roger that,” Santana replied. “Keep the engines running.”
“It won’t work,” Temo said tightly. “Headstone is crawling with bugs.”
“Well, you’d better hope that it does,” Santana replied grimly. “Because you’re going with us.”
Dietrich grinned wolfishly. “Welcome to the Legion, Major Temo. The pay sucks, but there’s plenty to do.”
12
Death follows life just as life follows birth.
PLANET EARTH, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
The military spaceport at China Lake, California, had been attacked shortly after the Ramanthians destroyed Earth’s orbital-defense platforms. Now the base was little more than a sprawling junkyard. The once-proud control tower lay like a fallen tree across the remains of an in-system freighter and the moonscape beyond. And the multitiered terminal building hadn’t fared any better. It had taken a direct hit from a missile that plunged down through five stories and exploded in the parking garage. So while the periphery of the structure was intact, the center was a burned-out hole.
Ironically enough, it was the destruction that made for a perfect hiding place. Despite the fact that just about all of China Lake’s surface installations had been destroyed, part of the spaceport’s underground storage-and- maintenance facility remained intact. The subsurface maze had been occupied more than once. But never for very long because shortly after a group of humans moved in, the bugs would attack. Roughly 10 percent of the much- disputed complex was still inhabitable so long as one didn’t mind the constant threat of a raid.
Navy Commander and Earth Liberation Brigade Leader Leo Foley knew that. So guards were in place all around the hideout, and a fast-response team was ready to respond within a matter of minutes. All of that was nice but brought him very little comfort given the extent of the threat. Still, there were only so many places where the ELB could hide.
Such were Foley’s thoughts as he left the utility room that served as his quarters, paused to collect a mug of caf from the makeshift cafeteria a hundred feet down the corridor, and followed a series of duracrete hallways back to the onetime storeroom that served as his office. Much to his surprise, the door was open, and a man was seated behind his desk. He had blond hair, a rigidly handsome face, and appeared to be in his midtwenties. However, Foley knew that Sergi Chien-Chu’s brain was well over a hundred years old-even if his cybernetic vehicle was much younger. It was one of many such “forms” he could call on. “Good morning,” Chien-Chu said cheerfully. “Sorry about the lack of advance notice, but coming and going from Earth is a rather complicated process these days, and my security people won’t let me publish a schedule.”
Foley understood but wished he’d been given time to prepare a report or at least get his thoughts in order. Of course, there was a distinct possibility that Chien-Chu wanted to catch him off balance. He was a very savvy businessman and ex-politician after all. “Yes, sir,” Foley replied. “Welcome to China Lake. Can I get you a cup of caf?”
Chien-Chu smiled. “Coffee is hard to come by these days. Why waste it on someone who can’t enjoy it?”
Foley said, “Yes, sir,” and took what normally served as his guest chair.
“Congratulations on Operation Cockroach,” Chien-Chu said. “The Ramanthian propaganda machine claims that you and your people killed five thousand of their supposed ‘peacekeepers.’ And we know that when it comes to casualties, they always subtract about twenty percent from the real number. So it’s safe to say that you nailed at least six thousand of the bastards.”
“It was supposed to be nine or ten thousand,” Foley said bleakly. “And I lost 423 people.”
“That’s a lot,” Chien-Chu admitted. “But, cold as it may sound, that’s something like fourteen of them for every one of us. Had we always done so well, the war would have been over a month ago.”
“Maybe,” Foley allowed, as his eyes drifted away. “But more than a hundred of the casualties were the direct result of my stupidity. I should have evacuated the mine before the attack. Or, failing that, left a significant force behind to protect it. I did neither. And lots of people died as a result.”
“That’s true,” Chien-Chu conceded. “You made a mistake. One born of hubris and overconfidence.”
“So you’re here to relieve me of my command,” Foley said dully, as his eyes swung back. “And you’re correct to do so.”
“Nice try,” Chien-Chu replied dryly. “But you aren’t getting off that easily. If we were to cashier every officer who made a mistake, sergeants would be in charge. Nope, your punishment is to stay right where you are and hatch more plans like Operation Cockroach. You really put the hurts on them with that one, son. Keep it up.”
It was strange to have what looked like a younger man call him “son.” “Yes, sir,” Foley replied, even though he didn’t have the foggiest idea of what to do next.
