Mud dislodged by Durkee’s foot pods rose to cloud the water, a dark ribbon of bloodlike hydraulic fluid trailed away from his stump, and there was a terrifying thud as a Ramanthian torpedo hit the quad. But, rather than going off, the weapon simply fell away. That raised the possibility that Durkee had entered the zone where an explosion would threaten the sub, a theory reinforced by the fact that the cyborg was “looking” up at the enemy vessel by that time.
The realization that he was safe, for the moment at least, was followed by an overriding question: How could he destroy the sub? At close range, his missiles were just as impotent as the Ramanthian torpedoes were. Then, like a bolt out of the blue, the answer came to him. Durkee blew his tanks. And as a large quantity of water was forced out of the war form’s hull, it shot upwards. Durkee shut his eyes, or tried to, and waited to die.
Santana was worried. And for good reason. He was standing on the seawall out in front of Colonel Antov’s home. The Ramanthian submarine shuddered, as if it had been hit from below, but continued to shell the north side of the bay. Nearly fifteen minutes had elapsed since Private Durkee had entered the water. And rather than the quick kill that he had envisioned, a protracted battle was under way. Now, with the benefit of twenty-twenty hindsight, Santana knew it had been foolish to pit an inexperienced legionnaire against a Ramanthian submarine.
One aspect of the plan had gone well, however. True to his prediction, the sub’s commander had turned both of his guns on the north side of the bay in an attempt to suppress the fire coming from that direction. But he couldn’t let that continue for much longer. Not if there was to be any hope of bringing Temo’s O-Chi Scouts back into the Confederate fold. Plus, there was the matter of civilian casualties to consider. So he was about to recommend that all of Antov’s forces including the TACBASE open fire when something unexpected occurred.
As Santana and hundreds of others looked on, something struck the Ramanthian ship from below and lifted it out of the water. The submarine seemed to hang there for a moment, as if suspended in time, before breaking open and spilling some of its contents into the swirling sea. A terrible groan was heard as the metal hull was torn apart, and both halves of the submersible took a final dive. Onlookers caught a brief glimpse of a boxy hull before it, too, slid beneath the waves.
“Damn,” Antov said from a couple of feet away. “What was that?”
“ That was a quad,” Santana replied as he lowered a pair of binos.
“Really? How many did you send?”
“One.”
Antov looked incredulous. “Only one?”
“There was one submarine.”
Antov laughed. “What now?”
“We’ll regroup,” Santana replied. “And get some rest. Then, first thing in the morning, I’ll pay Major Temo a visit.”
The night passed without incident. Santana’s alarm went off at 0400. After a shave, a shower, and some of the O-Chi caf that Antov had provided, Santana was ready to face another day. Captain Zarrella was already in the process of inspecting the first platoon as he made his way across the base to visit Durkee.
Having returned home under his own power, the quad had been able to back into his parking bay and successfully reintegrate himself with the fortress on top of Signal Hill. A damage assessment had been carried out, and the results weren’t good. There was no way to recover, much less repair, the missing leg-and the TACBASE was too small to carry a full array of spares. A significant amount of damage had been sustained when the cyborg surfaced under the submarine as well. So rather than hand the job off to Zarrella, Santana had assigned himself the task of delivering the news.
Durkee’s cargo bay was open. Santana entered, went over to the fold-down seat intended for use by the quad’s platoon leader, and sat down. After pulling a headset on, he spoke. “Private Durkee? This is Major Santana… Do you read me?”
There was a slight hesitation, as if Durkee had been caught unawares or was worried about getting in trouble. “Sir? Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll get right to the point. First, you did a damned good job yesterday, and I was very impressed. So was Captain Rona-Sa. And he doesn’t impress easily.”
Durkee sounded relieved. “Thank you, sir.”
“Second, I’m promoting you to corporal effective today, and I’m putting you in for a DSM. Of course, the approval process takes time-so you may be forty by the time you actually get it. That’s the good news.
“The bad news is that we can’t repair your leg. So, rather than accompany us on the mission, I’ll have to leave you here. But I understand the bugs come by to shoot the place up every now and then, so stay sharp. I’m counting on you to protect the TACBASE and the local civilians.”
Durkee was both surprised and pleased that Santana would come to visit him. And put him in for a medal. His mother would be proud.
As for the leg, and limited duty, well that was something of a mixed bag. Durkee didn’t know them very well as yet, but he still felt a sense of kinship with the other legionnaires and wanted to accompany them. Still, he had a bad feeling regarding the mission and knew he’d be safer in Baynor’s Bay. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”
The sky was gray, a steady rain was falling, and visibility was limited to a half mile as Captain Jo Zarrella and Lieutenant Bo Betz led the first platoon down the hill and north through the part of Baynor’s Bay that Santana hadn’t seen the day before. The force consisted of eighteen bio bods and an equal number of T-2s. All of the quads had been left at the TACBASE because Santana wanted to emphasize mobility over brute force.
After years as a company commander and a platoon leader before that, it felt strange to ride in the four slot. And to know that if the column came under fire, it would behoove him to keep his mouth shut unless asked for advice. Otherwise, Santana would run the risk of undermining Zarrella’s credibility.
Having been sent along in the role of advisor, Captain Kimbo and his T-2 were to Santana’s right. Kimbo’s visor was up, and he looked a bit green around the edges, leading Santana to suspect that he was seasick. It was a common occurrence for anyone not accustomed to riding a T-2. But practice makes perfect, and Santana felt sure that the last thing the militia officer would want was sympathy.
Santana allowed his weight to rest against the harness as Joshi carried him past the homes that lined the beach, occasional businesses, and piles of rubble. Computer-controlled antiaircraft weapons were located at half-mile intervals. They swiveled left or right as large seabirds triggered their sensors.
After a fifteen-minute jog, the patrol arrived at a barricade that consisted of an old fishing boat, two wrecked vehicles, and at least a ton of assorted junk. Kimbo appeared to be feeling a bit better-and pitched his voice so Santana could hear it. “This marks the border between the area controlled by Colonel Antov’s Rifles and Major Temo’s Scouts. It’s more symbolic than anything else. There hasn’t been any combat. Not yet anyway.”
“We’ll try to keep it that way,” Santana replied, as the column of T-2s snaked its way around the barricade and returned to the highway. The legionnaires were wearing long slickers over their body armor, but cold rainwater still found its way past Santana’s collar and began to trickle down his back.
This time there were no clusters of welcoming citizens. The locals were present, though. They peeked from windows or stopped what they were doing to watch the off-world troops splash past. None of them smiled or waved. Santana understood. The locals had every reason to support Temo given how important her family’s pharmaceutical plant was to the local economy. But, after months of being attacked by the Ramanthians, they had to feel a little better now that some Confed troops were on the ground. Maybe that would help to bring them around. Santana’s thoughts were interrupted by a burst of static and the sound of Ponco’s voice. “Zulu Seven to Zulu Nine. Over.”