Marine Firebase 356 (MF-356) was situated on top of a softly rounded hill that had been denuded of all vegetation and crowned with a multiplicity of improvised bunkers. MF-356’s purpose was to keep an eye on the highway that twisted snakelike through the valley below and, if necessary, bring it under fi?re from a pair of 105mm howitzers and a surface-to-surface missile launcher. There were mortars, too—which would raise hell with anyone stupid enough to attack the hill. But MF-356 was more than a tube farm. It was also home to the 2nd Battalion, 3rd Regiment, of the Marine Expeditionary Group. Which meant the base had its own landing pad, a supply dump, and a small fi?eld hospital. All of which made 356 interesting to Colonel Six and his Seebos. Because as far as Six was concerned Confederacy free breeders were only one rung above the Ramanthian free breeders, and the Alpha Clones had been wrong to enter into an alliance with them. Which meant if it became necessary to kill some marines to obtain supplies for his men, then so be it.
Having watched the fi?rebase for the better part of three days, Six knew that the time to strike was at hand. Two of battalion’s rifl?e companies, along with roughly half the weapons company, had been airlifted off the hill that morning. Judging from the full load-outs that the off-world troops were packing as they boarded the assault boats, the marines were going to be gone for a good two or three days. That left one rifl?e company, half a weapons company, and a variety of rear-echelon types to hold what the jarheads sometimes referred to as “Motherfucker- 356,” which, if subjected to a conventional infantry assault, they would probably be able to do. Especially if air support was available. But Six and his company of seventy-six men had no intention of launching a conventional attack. Having seen everything he needed to see and confi?dent that his plan would work, Six lowered his glasses and pushed himself back into thick brush. The Seebos were waiting. A raw, two-lane dirt road led down from the top of the hill that the fi?rebase sat on to the paved highway below. But, with the exception of the foot patrols that the marines sent out to keep an eye on the surrounding neighborhood, the path was rarely used because just about everything came and went by air. That was a quicker, and for the most part safer, way to move equipment and personnel around, now that the allies owned the sky. All those conspired to make sentry duty especially boring for Lance Corporal Danny Tovo and his best buddy, Private Harley Haskins, as they stood guard at the main gate. Both were dressed in summerweight camos, even though it was almost freezing, and the weather wizards were predicting snow fl?urries for later in the day. The long johns that the CO had purchased for them helped some, but what the leathernecks really needed was the parkas General-453 had promised, but never delivered. Still, the CO had authorized a makeshift heater, which consisted of a fi?fty-gallon drum fi?lled with fuel-soaked dirt and whatever wood scraps happened to be available. It was positioned next to the largely symbolic pole gate, about a hundred yards outside the ring of razor wire and the constantly shifting crab mines that were supposed to keep the bugs out.
Primitive though the device was, the additional heat was welcome, and both marines were standing right next to the barrel when Haskins frowned. “Hey, Tovo,” the private said.
“What the hell is that?”
Tovo followed the other jarhead’s pointing fi?nger, looked downhill, and spotted a column of troops marching up the dirt road. Clones from the look of them—all dressed in coldweather gear. That impression was confi?rmed when Tovo raised his glasses to take a second look. “Call the captain,”
Tovo instructed. “And tell him that we’ve got company.”
Fifteen minutes later Marine Captain Arvo Smith was standing next to the burn barrel, warming his hands, when the fi?rst of the clones arrived. Jets of lung-warmed air drifted away from nearly identical faces, and their gear made gentle creaking sounds, as the Seebos came to a halt. Colonel Six was at the head of the column and waited as the marine offi?cer came out to meet him. “Good afternoon, sir,” Smith said politely, as he delivered a crisp salute. “I’m Captain Smith. . . . And this is Marine Firebase 356.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Six lied. “I’m Colonel-420, and this is A Company, 102nd Airborne. That’s what we’re calling it anyway. . . . The truth is that my men were originally part of fi?ve different units. All of which got chewed up and spit out when the bugs landed.”
“I’m glad that you and your men made it through,”
Smith said sympathetically. “Here’s hoping things improve soon.”
“Not for us,” Six replied inclusively. “Not unless we join the navy.”
That got the expected laugh. “So, how can I help?” Smith wanted to know. “We weren’t expecting you—so I don’t have any orders.”
“We’re on our way east,” Six said truthfully. “To harass the enemy. We know this country, and they don’t. So once we close with the bastards, we’ll have an advantage.”
The plan sounded iffy to Smith. Especially given the number of troops the clone had at his disposal. But who was he to argue with a full bird? “Sir, yes sir,” Smith said respectfully.
“So what we need is some MREs, a few thousand rounds of ammo, and medical treatment for a couple of men who have infected wounds. Then, if you’ll let us stay the night, we’ll be out of here in the morning.”
Everything the other offi?cer said made sense, and the clones were allies, so Smith was tempted to approve the request himself. But the battalion commander could be an asshole at times, especially where command prerogatives were concerned, so why take a chance? Having put the clones on hold, Smith walked a few yards away and activated his radio. It took the better part of fi?ve minutes to get an okay from the CO along with a lot of unsolicited advice—most of which Smith planned to ignore as he went back to speak with the man he knew as Colonel-420. “Sorry about the delay, sir. . . . Lieutenant Colonel Suki told me to welcome you to Firebase 356 on his behalf, and invited you to use his quarters. So, if you and your men will follow me, we’ll get you settled.”
Six nodded politely, let out an inaudible sigh of relief, and waved his men forward. The computer-controlled crab mines, which were located to either side of the zigzagging road, made scrabbling sounds as they crawled back and forth. Six knew that the potentially lethal devices would fl?ood the path during the hours of darkness, thereby preventing enemy forces from fi?nding their way into the fi?rebase. Hopefully, assuming that everything went according to plan, there would be no need to deal with the self-propelled explosives on the way out.
Having gone through a second defensive perimeter, Six felt a sense of satisfaction as he and his Seebos passed the stiltmounted observation tower and stopped just short of the cir- cular landing pad beyond. It consisted of rock-hard heatfused soil that resembled volcanic glass. A variety of sandbagged enclosures marked weapons emplacements and the bunkers that lay below. To the clone’s eyes the fi?rebase looked like a well-stocked supermarket that could supply his troops for weeks to come. Not with some MREs, and a few thousand rounds of ammunition, but with all of the things that the free breeders would refuse him were he to ask. Like the shoulder- launched missiles he and his men were going to need in order to fulfi?ll the next part of his plan. A rich harvest indeed! But fi?rst it would be necessary to play a part. All of the marines knew about the Seebos, but very few had seen any of the clones close-up, so there was a tendency to stare as the Hegemony’s soldiers topped the hill. One of the onlookers was Lieutenant Kira Kelly. She was a doctor, and like all of the medical staff assigned to the Marine Corps, she belonged to the navy. And with most of the battalion in the fi?eld, and having held sick call earlier that morning, she was sitting outside her surgery, enjoying a cup of hot caf when the clones arrived.
