But after interrogating the two captured drivers from the armory, Vanderspool had the name of a Kel-Morian superior, and was able to piece together why the small operation had turned into a full-scale assault. It was a classic case of greed gone wrong: The superior had discovered the scheme and piggybacked onto the mission, sending out his own troops and hiring civilian drivers to steal the trucks. But it was poorly planned, and, thankfully, turned out to be a failure for the interloper; as the trucks left in a convoy, they were intercepted by their rightful captors and reclaimed, which at least made Vanderspool feel a little better—he’d hate to think that the scheming pig had made off with any loot. Even so, Vanderspool was hell-bent on revenge, and he would get it. He always did.
For now, though, he needed to find the missing truck; it was the most valuable of them all by a huge margin—it was filled with components for weapons and armor upgrades, which were worth nearly eight million credits all by themselves—and Vanderspool was determined to find it. So where was it? Findlay was a convicted criminal, after all… . Not for theft, but the guy was depraved enough to attack his commanding officer. Something wasn’t right with him. Did he know where the truck was?
And what about the other members of Findlay’s squad? Were they a bunch of degenerates that finally found their rightful leader? Or was the entire group pure as the driven snow? There was no way to know—but he would do his best to find out. “At ease,” Vanderspool said, and forced a smile. “It’s good to see you again, Findlay… . Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you, sir.” Tychus sat down. He felt uncharacteristically nervous. What was Vanderspool’s angle? What was he after?
“It took guts to chase those looters and recover that truck,” Vanderspool said, “and I’m proud of you.”
The truth was that Tychus had been hell-bent on stealing both vehicles and hiding them in the ruins of neighboring Whitford. Raynor had talked him out of it. Because, as the younger man put it, “if you bring one of the trucks back, they’ll believe your story. And if you don’t it will look like the entire squad went AWOL in the middle of a battle. Which strategy sounds better to you ?”
Tychus had been resistant to Raynor’s smart-assed input at first, but was glad he had listened now, as Vanderspool’s dark eyes bored into him. Maybe Jim Raynor would prove to be of some value, after all. “Thank you, sir.”
“So,” Vanderspool continued, “Thanks to your outstanding performance, it’s my pleasure to inform you that you and your men are going to be part of a new mixed-force unit that I will have the honor to lead.
“The 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion is going to be an elite outfit—but the team you’ll be part of will be even more remarkable. We’re calling it the Special Tactics and Missions platoon, or STM. It will receive the very latest armor and related technology. Sound good?”
It sounded bad. Very bad, because anytime the Marine Corps said that something was “special,” it wasn’t. And membership in elite units always meant more work, more inspections, and more attention from above. All of which would be detrimental to Operation Early Retirement. “Yes, sir,” Tychus lied. “I can hardly wait to get started.”
“That’s the spirit!” Vanderspool replied cheerfully. “You’ll be pleased to know that we’re bringing in a young fire-breather to lead the STM platoon. His name is Lieutenant Quigby, and you’ll have an opportunity to meet him shortly.”
By that time Tychus had taken note of a change to Vanderspool’s uniform. So he took the opportunity to suck up, in hopes that doing so would help put whatever doubts the officer might have had to rest. “I look forward to working with Lieutenant Quigby, sir … and congratulations on your promotion.”
Tychus could sense the wheels turning as Vanderspool smiled. “Thank you, Sergeant. Good luck with your new assignment. I plan to keep an eye on you.”
Did the last comment constitute a threat? Yes, Tychus thought that it did, but forced a smile anyway. “Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.” And with that he got up to leave.
Vanderspool watched the other man go. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Sergeant Findlay was exactly what he appeared to be. A big, simple-minded brute that would continue to be a useful tool until such time as the Kel-Morians killed him. And maybe the men who reported to him were choir boys. But maybes could be dangerous, especially with so much at stake, so an insurance policy was in order. And, unless Vanderspool missed his guess, there was bound to be one just waiting to be used.
Three days after the official creation of the 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion, Lieutenant Marcus Quigby mustered his platoon on a field adjacent to Fort Howe’s firing range and took the opportunity to introduce himself. The platoon consisted of three squads—none of which were up to full strength.
That didn’t stop Quigby from strutting back and forth in front of his tiny command as if it were a full regiment, a brand-new swagger stick under his arm, as his other hand jabbed the air. Quigby loved to give long, boring speeches, insisted on following every regulation to the letter, and micromanaged everything his subordinates did. None of which endeared the officer to his troops.
But thanks to his talent for engineering—and the fact that his father was a general—Quigby had been given a slot in what might become a very visible organization. Just the thing to jumpstart his career if everything went well. None of which mattered to Raynor, who found it difficult to take the young officer seriously. “What an asshole,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, which caused Zander to grin.
Quigby’s tirade had clearly reached a climax as he jabbed a finger toward the sky. “So,” he said portentously, “with all that in mind, the time has come for a new generation of hardskins. I’m talking about armor with advanced capabilities that will enable this platoon to clear obstacles during conventional attacks, carry out missions behind enemy lines, and reinforce units temporarily cut off from a larger force. Behold the future!”
Somebody’s timing was off, so Quigby was left standing there, his finger pointing at the clear blue sky for a good four seconds before a muted roar was heard. That was when Raynor and the rest of the troops saw something leap into the air a thousand feet down-range and come their way.
The bright red hardskin arrived a few seconds later, turned a full circle as if to display the jet pack that kept it aloft, and lowered itself to the ground. The big boots produced twin puffs of dust as they hit, and the power pack made a high-pitched whining noise as it spooled down.
It was an impressive demonstration and Quigby was clearly proud of it. His beady eyes, framed by disproportionately bushy eyebrows, darted from one face to the next. “Not bad, eh?” he demanded in a high, squeaky voice. “This is a demonstration model, which was modified to meet Technician Feek’s needs. But it’s similar to what each member of the platoon will receive after you qualify on standard CMC-225s. Fortunately for us, Sergeant Findlay is an expert where the 225s are concerned—and will be able to bring the rest of you up to speed. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?”
The whole thing was news to Tychus, who came to attention. “Sir! Yes, sir.”
“I thought as much,” Quigby said to no one in particular. “Once we move on to the CMC-230-XEs and -XFs, it will be time for Mister Feek to take over the training effort.”