’em.”
“They’re too deep,” Santana replied wearily. “In fact, based on the schematic that Madsen Mining gave us, it looks like some of the major galleries are more than a thousand feet below the surface. Besides, there’s a war on, and some of those supplies could come in handy. . . . Put us down one mile to the west. Who knows what kind of weapons systems and booby traps the bugs have in place around the landing pad.”
Quinlan’s response came so quickly it was as if he’d been waiting to make it. “That’s a negative Alpha Six. Why give the enemy time to prepare? You will land on the pad—and do so immediately. Over.”
The pilot looked back over his shoulder as if to say,
“What now?”
Santana swore under his breath. He’d been hoping to avoid confl?ict, but if that was what it was going to take to protect his legionnaires, then that’s the way it would have to be. “Alpha Six to Zulu Six. I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a lot of interference down here, and you’re breaking up. Over.”
The pilot grinned as Quinlan began to rant and rave.
“You’re lying, Santana. . . . And disobeying a direct order!
I’m going to—”
But whatever the major was going to do was forever lost as the copilot fl?icked a switch, and the relay went dead.
“Sorry, sir,” she said, knowing that the fl?ight recorder would capture her words. “It looks like we have some sort of com problem.”
“See what you can do with it,” the pilot replied calmly, as he brought the boat’s nose up and fi?red the repellers. “I have a ship to land. Thirty to dirt . . .”
Santana was already up out of his seat and making his way back into the cargo bay when the assault boat’s skids thumped down, the rear hatch whirred open, and the entire ship shook as Private Ivan Lupo lumbered down the ramp onto Oron IV’s reddish soil. The cyborg stood twenty-fi?ve feet tall, weighed fi?fty tons, and was supported by four massive legs. It was no accident that the so-called quad was the fi?rst legionnaire to hit dirt, because not only were Lupo’s sensors superior to those carried by the bipedal Trooper IIs (T-2s), but his gang- mounted energy cannons were more than a match for anything up to and including a Ramanthian battle tank. Not that Alpha Company was likely to encounter enemy armor on a backwater crud ball like Oron IV. Of course Lupo knew that “. . . assumptions can get you killed.” That’s what he and his buddies had been taught back in basic, and having already been executed for murder, the ex-con had no desire to die again. Not so soon at any rate.
Lupo assumed a defensive position about a hundred yards west of the landing craft, as Private Simy Xiong exited the ship and took up a similar position off to the east. As the second quad settled over her legs, Santana sent First Lieutenant Lucy Amoyo’s platoon out to secure the rest of the perimeter. For many of the legionnaires it was the fi?rst time they had set foot on a potentially hostile planet, so even though there weren’t any visible signs of life, the entire outfi?t was amped. Amoyo, one of the few members of Alpha Company who had seen combat, was no exception as she rode her ten-foottall T-2 out onto Oron’s arid surface. From where the offi?cer stood, high on the cyborg’s back, she had an excellent fi?eld of vision. More than that, she was free to focus most of her attention on the fi?rst platoon rather than negotiate the raw terrain. That chore fell to Sergeant Amy Matos, formerly Corporal Amy Matos, who had been killed in action two years previously, and given a chance to re-up as a cyborg. Which was really no choice at all since Matos couldn’t afford even the cheapest cybernetic civbod, a vehicle that would allow her to look human even if certain biological functions were forever lost to her.
So Matos brought her weapons systems to condition-fi?ve readiness and cranked her sensors to high gain, as she circled the newly created perimeter. The cyborg could run at speeds up to fi?fty miles per hour, operate in Class I through Class IX
gas atmospheres, and fi?ght in a complete vacuum if necessary. And, thanks to her fast-recovery laser cannon, air-cooled .50-caliber machine gun, and optional missile launchers, the T-2’s fi?repower equaled that of eight fully armed bio bods. Having completed a full circuit of the perimeter, and being satisfi?ed with the way her troops were positioned, Amoyo ordered Matos to pull up. “Alpha One-Six to Alpha Six. Over.”
Had Santana felt free to do so, he would have been the fi?rst bio bod off the ship. But the entire company was watching, and the offi?cer knew he couldn’t disembark with the fi?rst platoon lest the action be interpreted as a lack of faith in Lieutenant Amoyo’s judgment. And, given the fact that she was his executive offi?cer (XO) as well as the senior platoon leader, it was important to build her rep. So, Santana was standing in the cargo bay, monitoring the heads-up display (HUD) on the inside surface of his visor, when the call came in. “This is Six,” Santana replied calmly. “Go. Over.”
“The landing zone is secure, sir,” the platoon leader reported fl?atly. “Over.”
“Roger, that, One-Six,” Santana replied. “Keep your eyes peeled. Out.”
Based on previous experience, Santana knew that his other platoon commander, a young second lieutenant named Gregory Zolkin, had a tendency to be excessively wordy where his reports were concerned. He hoped the untried offi?cer had been paying attention to Amoyo’s succinct style as the two of them made eye contact. Both were sealed inside full body armor, so what might have otherwise been a casual interchange was made more formal by the need to use radio procedure, which was required whenever a conversation took place on the company-level push.
“Alpha Six to Bravo One-Six,” Santana said. “Based on the amount of heat that’s escaping from the mine shaft, there’s a very real possibility that the bugs are hiding out below, waiting to see if we’ll go away. You and I will take the fi?rst squad and knock on the front door. Meanwhile, Alpha Six-Two will take the second squad and circle around behind the hills. His job will be to locate the back door. And believe me—there is one. Do you have any questions? Over.”
Zolkin had lots of questions. Not the least of which was would he make an ass of himself, shit his suit, or get killed?
But, being unable to actually ask those questions, the lieutenant gave the only answer he could. “Sir, no, sir. Bravo One-Six out.”
Santana hadn’t discussed the plan with Dietrich in advance, but such was the relationship between the two men that the noncom had anticipated such an assignment, and was ready for it. Because if a substantial number of chits were allowed to surface in the wrong place, the results could be disastrous. And rather than download the task to Zolkin, Santana had given the job to his company sergeant, knowing Dietrich had more than enough experience to handle it. “Okay,” Santana said evenly. “Let’s hit the dirt. Six out.”
