From the outside, transports looked bulky and bloated. The kettle, the soldier-and cargo-carrying part of the ship, was a dome with a twelve-foot roof. The core of the ship was a narrow spine with stubby wings. The spine ran across the top of the kettle. From the side, transports reminded me of a severely pregnant dragonfly.
I pulled my way around the next transport. When I came to the opening at the back, I looked around the door and saw three men floating inside. Given the opportunity, I would have pulled my particle beam and shot all three of them. I did not have that option.
“Philips?” I called on the interLink.
“Master Sarge, you on their transport yet? It’s getting a bit hot up here,” Philips said, sounding more bored than anything else.
“I’m in trouble here. You have any puppets left?”
“Sure, Sergeant. I’ve still got a stiffy for you.” The rest of the platoon heard this. I heard them giggling over the interLink.
“Grab your stiff…your puppet, and get down here,” I ordered. “Thomer, watch his back.”
“I’m already on it,” Thomer said. Thomer protected Philips, not that the guy needed much in the way of protection.
Less than ten seconds passed before Evans came on line, and said, “They’re sending in a scout to check out the barricade.”
“Are you dark?” I asked. Dark meant that he had engaged his stealth kit and hidden himself.
“I’m in a vent. I can see them from here. They’re examining the bodies.”
“Are they fooled?” I asked.
“You sick bastard,” Sutherland yelled.
“What is it?” I asked.
“There’s a Mogat playing with one of the bodies. He’s posing it like a doll.”
“Someone’s playing with my stiffy?” Philips asked.
“Where are you, Philips?” I asked.
“Right outside your hangar. You ready to roll?”
That was the thing about Philips—you never knew whether you should court-martial him or give him a medal. He could fight better than any Marine in my platoon. In his own way, Philips was a specking battlefield genius.
I looked around the ship just in time to see the bright green flash of a particle beam. Philips fired three times and hit three guards. The rest scattered and ran for cover.
“I don’t know what’s happening on your side of the boat, but this side just emptied in a hurry,” Evans called down from the bridge.
“I’ll bet. They’re all headed this way,” I said.
The Mogats in the transport flew out, their pistols drawn. Across the launch bay, the twelve remaining guards fired at the doorway.
“You okay out there, Philips?” I asked as I glided into the empty kettle.
“It’s like kicking an anthill,” Philips said. “My oh my, do those little buggies come after you.” A moment later, “Oh, they got my stiffy in the leg. Guess I better hide.”
Once inside the transport, I opened a cargo hatch and hid. The compartment was dark, small, and empty. I pulled my pistol and kept my finger on the trigger. In my mind, I imagined myself as a scorpion hiding under a leaf, waiting to sting anything that disturbed it.
I could not see what was happening around me. If somebody happened to open this compartment, they would spot me one moment and die the next.
“Okay, I’m in,” I called over the interLink.
“I hope this works,” Evans said.
“Watch your back, Master Sergeant,” Sutherland said.
“I miss my stiffies,” said Philips.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
My time in the compartment was not quite as bad as being buried alive. Everything around me was dark and still, but I could move my arms around my sides. The compartment was so shallow that moving my arms across my chest took serious squirming.
Even after they boarded the transport and the kettle doors closed, the Mogats continued communicating over their obsolete interLink band. I listened in to some of their chatter—one hundred soldiers babbling on in two dozen different conversations. One guy bragged endlessly about the three “bargers” he bagged. “Bargers” must have been Mogat slang for U.A. sailors.
I did not hear a shred of valuable information eavesdropping on these lowlifes. When the pilot restored the atmosphere inside the kettle, the men took off their helmets and the interLink went silent.
The shell of the transport vibrated as the thrusters lifted it off the launch bay deck. I did not hear the engines so much as feel them. The metal beneath my back trembled so hard that its spasms shook me inside my armor.
“Evans, can you hear me?” I called over the interLink.
“Did you make it out?” Sergeant Evans asked.
“I’m on the transport,” I said.
“Are you hidden?” he asked.
“I’m in a crawl space under the floor,” I said. “What’s the situation over there?”
“Three of their transports are out. The Mogats on that last one must not be in any rush to get home. They’re taking a stroll around the ship.”
“And our guys?” I asked.
The shell of the transport began to spasm again. I heard the thrusters working. They whispered through the hull. The transport made an eerie creaking sound.
“We’re all in the vents.”
“Stay hidden,” I said.
“Aye, aye,” Evans responded.
He was a good and reliable Marine. He was a bore.
The landing gear clanked as it struck the deck and its struts whined under the weight of the transport. We had landed on a Mogat battleship. The men in the kettle would file off the ship as fast as they could. Pilots usually took their time shutting down systems. I was deaf and blind down in the crawl space, so I would allot him plenty of time to leave the ship before opening the hatch above me. I remained motionless, lying on my back, alone in the dark.
I went over the layout of the derelict battleship in my mind. The layout of this ship would be identical. I remembered the path I took to get to the launch bay. I could not hide in an emergency elevator or pass through the vents this time. I would have to blend in.
“You there, Master Sergeant?” It was Evans on the interLink.
“What is it?”
“The last transport just flew out.”
“Did they leave sentries?” I asked.
“The ship is clear,” he said.
“How long till the explorer comes back?” I asked. I should have known that, but I had lost track of time.
“Should be another hour,” Evans said.
“Okay, Evans, keep an eye out for my signal.” That was the point of the entire exercise. If Yamashiro was right, and the Mogats had built themselves a communications superhighway, I would be able to send messages back to Evans no matter where the ship went.
Hiding in that small compartment went more smoothly than getting myself out, thanks to the zero-gravity conditions inside the derelict battleship. When I entered, I’d floated into place. Now, in gravity, I had to drag my
