When Duty Calls
William C. Dietz
ISBN: 1-4362-9054-6
1
The general who is skilled in defense hides in the most secret recesses of the Earth; he who is skilled in attack fl?ashes forth from the topmost heights of heaven.
The Art of War
PLANET ORON IV, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Captain Antonio Santana, Commanding Offi?cer of Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC, felt a noticeable jerk as the CF-10 Assault Boat fell free of the Troop Transport Cynthia Harmon and began a gradual descent toward the nearly airless planet below. The lightly armed landing craft was accompanied by four Dagger 184 aerospace fi? ghters. That knowledge brought the cavalry offi?cer scant comfort, however, because he knew that once his largely untried company hit the surface of Oron IV, the navy wouldn’t be able to do much more than cheer them on. Or mourn their deaths. Santana felt his body fl?oat up off the surface of the jump seat, or try to, but a six-point harness held him in place. Behind the offi?cer, back in the CF-10’s crowded cargo bay, sixteen space-armored bio bods and nineteen cyborgs shared the heady combination of fear and excitement that precedes any combat insertion. And this one was worse than most. Because not only was half the company fresh from basic training, and had never been in combat before, but the raid was the type of mission normally reserved for the Marine Corps. Except there was a shortage of jarheads at the moment—which was why the Legion had been ordered to stand in for them. Making a bad situation worse was the fact that Major Liam Quinlan had assumed command of the 2nd Battalion while Santana was on leave. And for some reason the new CO was determined to fi?nd fault with everything the offi?cer did, a fact that had become obvious to the entire company and made the veterans resentful.
But Santana had dealt with diffi?cult commanding offi?cers before and been able to win most of them over by doing a good job. With that in mind, the cavalry offi?cer put all of his other concerns aside to focus on the task at hand. The pale orange planet seemed to swell as the CF-10 entered an atmosphere thick with methane, carbon dioxide, and nitrous oxide. Which was why the world was considered worthless, or had been until recently, when the war between the Ramanthian Empire and the Confederacy of Sentient Beings had begun. Suddenly everything was in fl?ux as old enemies became new friends, a new faster-than-ship communications technology began to reshape the way future wars would be fought, and planets like Oron IV were suddenly signifi?cant. Not as places for people to live, but as strategic jump points, where supplies could be pre-positioned for battles yet to come. Because, as Military Chief of Staff General Bill Booly liked to point out, supplies are the lifeblood of any army. Which, assuming the intelligence people were correct, was why the insectoid Ramanthians had chosen to establish a presence on Oron IV, a planet that lay well within the Confederacy’s gradually shrinking borders, was generally inhospitable to life, and rarely received visitors. All of which made it the perfect place for the bugs to hide a whole shitload of supplies while they got ready for the next big push. “Are you sure the chits are down there?” the copilot inquired dubiously. “There are no signs of electronic activity so far. . . . Maybe they went home.”
“That would be nice,” Santana replied over his suit radio.
“But odds are the bastards are lying low. That’s what I would do if I were them.”
All radio communications were being routed through the company-level Integrated Tactical Command (ITC) system, which meant that Major Quinlan could monitor the company’s progress from the well-padded comfort of the Harmon’s Command & Control Center (C&C) and participate in any conversation he chose to. “I don’t think any of us care what you would do if you were a Ramanthian,” Quinlan commented caustically. “So, stow the bullshit, and stick to your job.”
The copilot looked back over her shoulder as if to apologize, and Santana shrugged, as if to say, “Don’t worry about it.”
Meanwhile, back in the cargo bay, Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich frowned. The hollow-cheeked noncom had served with Santana before. First on LaNor, where a consortium of off-world governments had been forced to battle the Claw, and then on Savas, where elements of the 1st REC took part in a raid that required them to traverse hundreds of miles of hostile territory. So Dietrich not only knew what the cavalry offi?cer was capable of, but was familiar with Santana’s combat record, which included two Medals for Valor and a Distinguished Service Cross. Complete with a newly added star. And, being a decorated veteran himself, Dietrich knew how divisive an offi?cer like Quinlan could be. Divisive, and if they weren’t careful, dead. Because it was the noncom’s opinion that every garden requires an occasional weeding. Both of the company’s quads were back by the loading ramp, where they could hit the ground fi?rst, backed by seventeen ten-foot-tall Trooper IIs, all of whom were clamped to the bulkheads, and fi?fteen bio bods, many of whom were looking at the “Top,” trying to gauge his reaction to Quinlan’s comment. Mindful of the fact that the major could hear anything he said, Dietrich grinned menacingly from behind his faceplate and aimed a one-fi?ngered salute up toward space. The legionnaires seated around the noncom laughed, and even though both of Santana’s platoon leaders witnessed the gesture, they were careful to ignore it. Partly because they had no love for Quinlan themselves, but mostly because they were afraid to get crosswise of the hard-eyed sergeant, and the veterans who were loyal to him. The net effect was to break the tension and simultaneously restore the company’s confi?dence in Santana. Because if Dietrich had faith in the captain, then it was obvious that they should, too.
The assault boat and its sleek escorts bucked their way down through multiple layers of turbulent gas until they could skim the planet’s arid surface. There wasn’t much to see other than frequent outcroppings of gray rock, dry riverbeds, and occasional forests of what looked like petrifi?ed trees. Then, after ten minutes or so, the landing craft’s boxy shadow rippled over the only man-made structures on the planet’s surface. The complex consisted of a rusty dome, a clutch of globular tanks, and a sand-drifted landing pad. The words “Madsen Mining” were still legible on the cracked duracrete if one looked hard enough. The entire facility was nestled within the open arms of three interlocking hills, which the map provided by Madsen Mining referred to as the Three Amigos.
“Bingo!” the copilot said excitedly, as she stared at the readouts arrayed in front of her. “That sucker is radiating way too much heat. . . . It looks like the chits took over the mine! Maybe we should tell the Dags to bomb
