“Good for nothing,” Zander said, straight-faced. “It would have been nice if you had arrived a bit earlier.”
“And it would be nice if you would spend your money on booze and hookers,” Tychus put in as he emerged from the barn. “And not necessarily in that order.” Having stripped Trask of his jewelry, he was trying to force a garish-looking ring onto the little finger of his left hand.
“Which raises an important topic,” Kydd interjected. “It seems to me that the people who got rescued should buy the beer.”
“Count on it,” Ward said with a smile. “The first round is on Zander.”
“Good,” Tychus said, “because I happen to know of a bar that would benefit from our business.”
Raynor groaned. “Not Hurley’s …”
Tychus grinned wolfishly. “Of course Hurley’s! We need a refund on those overpriced sandwiches.”
“Gimme some!” Harnack said, as he raised his hand.
The high-fives generated a series of slapping sounds.
Doc was the last person to join in the celebration.
FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
Four days had passed since the raid on the farmhouse, the squad was back at Fort Howe, and Doc was pissed. She and the rest of the squad had been training hard, and were in the middle of a hard-earned break when a message arrived ordering her to report to the command center. That was definitely not in keeping with the reporting process that she and Vanderspool had agreed on.
So having been told to report to Vanderspool’s office, Cassidy blew through the waiting room and entered in a huff. The door slammed behind her as she stomped across the room. Vanderspool, who had been busy stuffing printouts into a briefcase, looked up in surprise as a very angry medic came forward to lean on his desk. “What the hell are you trying to do?” she demanded. “Get me killed? If Tychus figures out I’ve been ratting him out he’ll squash me like a bug—”
Vanderspool was a desk jockey, but hadn’t always been one, and Doc was surprised by the speed with which his right hand shot out to grab a fistful of shirt. A fancy clock, two vidsnaps, and a brass shell casing filled with writing implements went flying as he dragged her across the surface of the desk until her nose was only inches from his. “You will address me as ‘sir’ … and as for having you killed, that could happen today! Do you scan me, bitch?”
Doc saw the anger in his dark eyes and knew she’d gone too far. That was one of the problems associated with using crab. Any time she had too much or too little of the drug, it affected her judgment. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Vanderspool pushed her away. “That’s better… . I don’t have time to play meet-the-drug-whore in the HTD today… . General Thane wants me to fly to Boro Airbase for a strategy session. But before I go I want a report on Sergeant Findlay and his group of misfits.
“Civilian authorities claim that a man matching his description entered a pub called Hurley’s the day before yesterday, challenged the owner to a fistfight, and nearly killed him. Plus, if what they say is true, other soldiers were present as well … one of whom was described as being a female with short hair and a pretty face. Sound familiar?”
Cassidy stood with her head bowed, looking down at the mess on the floor. She began by saying, “Yes, sir,” in a subdued voice, and went on to tell the story as she knew it, starting with being awoken by Feek.
Vanderspool listened intently as Doc described the trip to Finner’s Crossing, what she had overheard regarding large quantities of money, the map, the attack on the farm, the manner in which the hostages had been freed, and the subsequent delivery of Zander’s food shipment to a refugee camp nearby. Vanderspool’s blood was boiling. All his suspicions were confirmed—the whole lot of them were worthless, pitiful crooks. His temples throbbed and his jaw tightened as Cassidy continued her narrative.
“Then, on the way back to base, Tychus, I mean Findlay, insisted that we stop at Hurley’s Bar, because Hurley was the one who gave Raynor the map and ratted us out.” She shrugged. “You know how Findlay is. Hurley was good with his hands—but not good enough. In fact, if it weren’t for Lance Corporal Raynor pulling Findlay off him, the bastard might be dead.”
“But they say you gave him first aid,” Vanderspool said.
“That’s what I do,” Cassidy said off-handedly.
“That’s one of the things you do,” Vanderspool countered tightly. “You are dismissed.”
Doc looked up. Her surprise was obvious. “Dismissed?”
“Yes,” Vanderspool responded. “What did you expect? A medal?”
“You aren’t going to throw us all in the stockade?”
“No,” Vanderspool replied. “I told you I’m on my way to a meeting. Now get the hell out of my office!”
Doc came to attention, did an about-face, and left.
Vanderspool slammed his hands down on his desk. So he’d been right all along… . Findlay and his cronies had stolen the truck, sold its contents to the highest bidder, and split the money. His money.
Vanderspool stalked into his lavatory and clutched the sides of the sink. Leaning in toward the mirror, his jaw clenched, the colonel peered intently at his reflection. Those goddamn thieving bastards, he thought. I’m going to kill those sons of bitches. I knew it! Furious, he smashed his fist into the mirror. It shattered into a thousand pieces, shards of glass clattered as they fell, and Vanderspool looked at his knuckles. His skin was ragged.
The colonel’s mind was flashing with rage, but he needed to focus. He wanted to kill them, brutally, mercilessly—or worse, turn their brains to mush so he could see their smiling, worshipful faces as they were forced to do his bidding.
But that would have to wait. As infuriating as it was, he needed them—the STM platoon were the only soldiers who had undergone the weeks of training required to use the new hardskins, and there was no one else who could execute the strategic plan he was about to present at the conference. It would be his shining moment, and one that could not be tarnished—by anyone, not even them.
With a dropship waiting for him, Vanderspool left for the airstrip. The corporal, who had no idea what was going on, was left to clean up the mess on the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“These rumors are based on the worst kind of propaganda, something our enemy is intimately familiar with. All the prisoners of war being held in our internment facilities receive three nutritious meals each day, are given excellent medical care, and are treated with respect.”
FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
The sky was gunmetal gray, it was unseasonably cold, and the troops were wearing water-slicked ponchos as they crossed the rain-lashed grinder. Puddles had formed in the low spots and produced tiny geysers each time a droplet of water fell into them.
The first thing that members of the STM platoon noticed as Tychus Findlay led them into the base theater was the fact that a squad of heavily armed MPs was patrolling the perimeter of the building. Harnack, who was walking next to Raynor, produced a low whistle. “What’s with all the security?”
Raynor shrugged. “Beats me … maybe they know the briefing’ll be so boring they’ll need guards to keep us in there.”
“Or maybe something important is in the wind,” Harnack theorized. “I’d like to fry me some more Kel-Morians.”