That was when Tychus felt something hard jab the back of his skull, heard the familiar click-clack sound, and knew someone was holding a shotgun to his head. “That’s one possibility,” a third voice drawled, “or I could blow your head off and check to see if there’s anything inside. My guess is no.”
Tychus was still holding a fistful of shirt as the lance corporal smiled slowly. “I would listen to Private Harnack if I were you,” the marine said reasonably. “He shot three Kel-Morians last week—so he might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Of course, it’s hard to tell where Hank’s concerned.”
Tychus was furious, but, determined not to let his emotions show, he released his grip. Then, having snatched the A-chip back, he turned to go. The red-haired marine, with his supercilious smile still firmly in place, stood well out of reach. A rectangle of bright sunlight beckoned—and Tychus made for it. A skirmish had been lost—but the battle was far from over.
THE RAFFIN BROTHERS MINE NEAR FORT HOWE ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
The Kel-Morian rippers had been living deep underground for six days. The main chamber was lit with emergency lanterns, and strings of lights crisscrossed the area above. Power was supplied by a generator that had been liberated from the Confeds and brought down into the mine.
Dozens of matte black powered combat suits lined the walls. Soldiers sat in small groups talking, gambling, or fine-tuning various pieces of equipment. They wore every scrap of clothing they had, because despite the meager heat emanating from a few jury-rigged heaters, it was cold in the mine.
Foreman Oleg Benson didn’t know very much about the mine, and didn’t need to know anything more than the fact that it had been abandoned at some point, and was deep enough to hide in. He sat off by himself, as befitted a Kel-Morian foreman, sucking on an unlit pipe and wondering how much longer he and his men would be required to wait. One day? Two? Certainly no more than that, because he and his troops were running short of food.
But if his superior’s plan was successful, Benson and his rippers would play a pivotal role in one of the most daring raids of the war. Because the mine was only a few miles east of Fort Howe, which, having been stripped of troops, was ripe for the plucking. And in more ways than one.
Because once Benson and his grunts overran the base and secured a landing zone for an airborne assault team flown in from the east, there would be ample opportunity to loot the base. An activity Overseer Scaggs not only approved of, but insisted upon!
It was Scaggs who had the clarity to see an opportunity for victory and sent the rippers into hiding even as the marines from Fort Howe pushed Kel-Morian forces toward the east. A move that could convert a loss into a victory if successful. A group of guerillas began to sing and Benson smiled.
FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
After grudgingly returning to collect his new gear from the supply depot at 1400 hours, Tychus was about to go to chow, when a cute, ginger-haired corporal on a motorized cart arrived in front of the barracks. “Is Private Findlay here?” she asked sweetly as she hopped out.
Tychus ran his eyes up and down the corporal’s petite, curvy frame. “Who’s asking?”
“So it is you, then.” She looked up at him. “You’re much bigger in person than in your picture,” she offered innocently.
Tychus smiled—a genuine smile that reflected the bevy of impure thoughts that were running through his mind at that particular moment. “Yes, I’m Findlay,” he acknowledged. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Beats me,” she shrugged as she motioned to the cart. “Hop in! Lieutenant Colonel Vanderspool wants to speak with you.”
Tychus swore under his breath as he walked around to the passenger side. Had he been assigned to a shit detail of some sort? Yes, probably. He was both surprised and worried. Lieutenant Colonel Vanderspool was in charge of both the 3rd Battalion and the base. So if he wanted to talk with a lowly private, then it was probably because of an infraction. But what? There hadn’t been enough time to steal anything.
Still, Tychus had no choice but to get in the cart and allow himself to be transported to the command center. Suddenly Tychus was painfully aware of the fact that his uniform was wrinkled and his boots were in desperate need of some polish.
But there was nothing Tychus could do about those deficiencies as he followed the sexy little corporal inside, stepped onto the lift platform, and walked into the well-furnished waiting area outside the base commander’s office on the observation deck. Tychus caught a glimpse of Vanderspool through his open door, as he sat on the corner of his desk chatting with an officer.
Tychus got the impression of a man whose handsome features had begun to blur as a result of age and too much good food. Vanderspool was, according to what the corporal had said, just in from the field. But if that was the case, Tychus couldn’t see any signs of hardship as he examined the officer’s starched uniform and immaculate boots. A hands-off type then, somebody who preferred to sit around and shoot the breeze with staff officers, rather than spend time on the front lines.
The visitor laughed at something Vanderspool said, got up out of the guest chair, and exited the office. That was when the corporal stuck her head in and said something Tychus couldn’t hear, before motioning for him to enter.
Tychus took three steps into the office, came to attention, and announced himself. “Private Tychus Findlay, reporting as ordered, sir!”
Now that Tychus was closer he could see that Vanderspool had hard eyes, a tracery of broken veins that wandered over the bridge of his nose, and a thin-lipped mouth. “At ease,” Vanderspool said approvingly. “Sorry about the short notice, but I’ve been commuting between the fort and Hobber’s Gap, where we’re about to push the KMs back into the disputed zone. Please, have a seat.”
The tone had been congenial so far, so Tychus felt somewhat relieved as he sat down, but still on guard. Because he’d been summoned for a reason, and odds were he wasn’t going to like it.
Vanderspool had circled the big desk by that time. The executive-style chair sighed as he lowered his weight onto it. “You have an interesting record,” Vanderspool commented, as he plucked an old-fashioned letter opener off the desktop and began to toy with it. “You worked your way up to staff sergeant, struck an officer, and were sent to a correctional facility on Raydin III.”
The officer paused at that point, but Tychus knew better than to speak. Some officers like to run their mouths, and Vanderspool was clearly one of them. But where was the one-sided conversation headed?
“It’s only fair to remind you that you are on what amounts to parole,” Vanderspool continued sternly. “One word from me and you’ll be back in a correctional facility.” His voice darkened. “And if you think hard labor was bad, you can only imagine what else we’re capable of. If you mess with me, boy, you might just end up a prisoner in your own body. Scan me?”
Tychus had no idea what Vanderspool was referring to and didn’t want to find out. And technically, he wasn’t on parole, but it didn’t seem up for discussion. Besides, he wanted to get the hell out of there, so Tychus gave the answer that every officer likes to hear. “Yes, sir.”
“But,” Vanderspool said, brightening. “I believe in second chances. Which is why I’m going to give you this.”
Vanderspool slid a patch across the table. Tychus couldn’t hide his surprise when he saw three inverted chevrons. “That’s right,” Vanderspool said. “You’re a sergeant again. Not a staff sergeant like before—you’ll have to earn that rocker, but a buck sergeant. Congratulations!”