nightmare of strobing muzzle fl?ashes, exploding grenades, and wildly swinging lights. “Form on me!” Santana ordered. “Pull back toward the lock!”
Having only a small force of T-2s, and facing an unknown number of enemy troops, Santana knew he was in trouble. The decision to enter the mine had been a gamble, one he regretted, so it was time to salvage what he could. Once the ambush site was behind them, the offi?cer ordered the T-2s to turn and fi?re as a group, before making a run for the lock. And it was then, as the cyborgs began to pick up speed, that the ground started to shake. Clouds of dust and smoke were injected into the main tunnel even as slabs of rock fell from above and holes opened in the fl?oor. And that’s where Staff Sergeant Carol Yanty and her T-2 went, as a fi?ssure appeared in front of them, and Private Su Hopson stepped into the hole.
Santana, who had intentionally stationed himself at the tail end of the fl?eeing column, swore as the twosome disappeared and daylight appeared up ahead. “Run!” the offi?cer shouted, as a wall of smoke, dust, and fl?ying debris began to overtake the legionnaires from behind. “Run like hell!”
But the T-2s needed no urging, and were already moving as quickly as they could when the fi?nal charges went off, and a plug of poisonous air helped expel them from the mine. It was dark inside the dust cloud, but the cyborgs could “see”
with their sensors and were able to keep going until the smoke fi?nally cleared and it was possible to stop. Dekar turned to look back, which meant Santana did as well, not that there was much to see. A pile of rubble marked the spot where the entry lock had been. The dust cloud was starting to disperse and the hill off to the right had been scarred by a new landslide.
The essence of the mission, which was to confi?rm that the Ramanthians were present, and dislodge or kill them, had been achieved. But at what cost? Half the squad had been killed, and thousands of tons of potentially useful supplies were buried in the mine. All of which left Santana feeling more than a little depressed as he led his troops back toward the company’s temporary base. Stars started to twinkle as the sun set, darkness claimed the land, and the long bloody day came to an end.
ABOARD THE TROOP TRANSPORT
More than one standard day had passed since the battle inside the mine, the loss of four legionnaires and thousands of tons of supplies. All of which weighed heavily on Santana as he made his way down the ship’s main corridor to the cabin assigned to Battalion Commander Liam Quinlan. Where he expected to get his ass royally chewed. Or, worse yet, face formal charges. Private Kay Kaimo had been assigned to stand guard outside Quinlan’s door. The legionnaire came to attention as her company commander approached and rendered a rifl?e salute with her CA-10. Santana responded with a salute of his own, rapped his knuckles on the knock block next to the hatch, and waited for a response. It came quickly.
“Enter!”
Santana took three paces forward, executed a smart right face, and took one additional step. That put him directly in front of the Battalion Commander as he came to attention. It was widely known that Quinlan was fi?fty- six years old, had been passed over for lieutenant colonel on two different occasions, and would have been forced into retirement had it not been for the war. As the Confederacy’s armed forces began to ramp up in order to deal with the Ramanthians, there was a desperate shortage of experienced offi?cers. That meant Quinlan, and others like him, were likely to be promoted. Santana’s eyes were focused on a point about six inches above the other man’s head, but he could still see quite a bit. The man in front of him had small, piggy eyes, prissy lips, and pendent jowls. His uniform was at least half a size too small for him and tight where a potbelly pushed against it. Quinlan nodded politely. “At ease, Captain. Have a seat.”
The invitation came as something of a surprise to Santana, who fully expected to receive his tongue-lashing in the vertical position, consistent with long-standing tradition. The navy had provided two guest chairs, both of which were bolted to the deck, and Santana chose the one on the right. The cabin was three times larger than the box assigned to him and was intended to serve Quinlan as offi?ce, conference room, and sleeping quarters all rolled into one. However, unlike most of the Legion’s senior offi?cers, who saw no reason to personalize a space soon to be left behind, Quinlan was known to travel with a trunkful of personal items calculated to make his tent, hab, or stateroom more comfortable. For that reason all manner of photos, plaques, and memorabilia were on display, items that would quickly be transformed into a galaxy of fl?oating trash were the Harmon’s argrav generators to drop off-line. But that wasn’t Santana’s problem, so the company commander kept his mouth shut as Quinlan selected an oldfashioned swagger stick from the items on the top of his desk and began to twirl it about. “So,” the major began. “I read your after-action report, and while it was essentially correct, it was my opinion that you were excessively hard on yourself.”
Santana, who was still in the process of recovering from what he considered to be a fl?awed performance, was astounded. “If you say so, sir,” the cavalry offi?cer replied cautiously. “But I continue to feel that our casualties were too high—and I regret the loss of those supplies.”
“Nonsense,” Quinlan said dismissively. “The Navy will dig the supplies out in a matter of weeks. You did all anyone reasonably could. . . . That’s why I took the liberty of rewriting certain sections of your report, which I would like you to read and sign. Go ahead,” the senior offi?cer said invitingly, as he made use of the swagger stick to push the hard copy in Santana’s direction. “Take a look.”
Quinlan tapped his right cheek with the leather-clad stick as Santana skimmed the words in front of him. The essence of the situation quickly became clear. While ostensibly changing the report so as to benefi?t one of his subordinates, Quinlan was actually taking care of himself! Because he would remain as acting battalion commander until such time as his promotion to lieutenant colonel came through. And even though that was pretty much a done deal, it wouldn’t hurt to pump some positive fi?eld reports into BUPERS while he was waiting. Especially if the incoming data addressed the area where the major’s resume was the thinnest. Which was actual combat.
While Santana knew Quinlan had never gone down to the planet’s surface, those who read the report would assume he had, and would give the portly offi?cer at least partial credit for what would appear to be a successful mission after Santana’s self-critical comments had been removed. When the cavalry offi?cer’s eyes came up off the last page, Quinlan’s were waiting for him. “So,” the major said mildly. “Unless you spotted a factual error of some sort, I would appreciate your signature.”
Santana wanted to object—but had no grounds to do so other than his suspicions. Which, were he to voice them, would sound churlish and ungrateful. So, there was nothing he could say or do, other than to sign the report and return the stylus to Quinlan’s obsessively neat desk. “Excellent,”
the other man said, as he took the hard copy and put it aside. “Now that we have that out of the way we can talk off the record. Man-to-man if you will. Beginning with your proclivity for insubordination.”
It was at that point that Santana understood how skillfully he had been manipulated. Though unwilling to cast the outcome of the mission in a negative light where offi?cial records were concerned, lest that spoil his long- awaited promotion, Quinlan was free to say whatever he chose. The hatch was open too, which meant Private Kaimo was intended to hear, so she could share the high-level drama with her peers.
