So Tychus was on his way from the command center to the building where the KM pilot was being held, when he saw someone he had never expected to see again: Sam Lassiter.
Somewhere along the line the soldier had undergone a near miraculous transformation. Rather than the rebellious, unkempt figure that Tychus had last seen being escorted out of the rock quarry by armored guards, this Lassiter had short hair, was clean-shaven, and wore a uniform so perfect it looked like something straight out of a recruiting video. The soldier cut across Tychus’s path but paused when his name was called. “Hey, Private Lassiter,” Tychus said. “The last time I saw you was at MCF-R-156. I’m surprised they let you out after what you did to Bellamy.”
Lassiter’s eyes were blank. “MCF what? Bellamy? I don’t understand. You must have me mixed up with someone else.”
“I don’t think so,” Tychus replied, as he eyed the private’s nametag. “You don’t remember the quarry, the box … attacking Sergeant Bellamy?”
Lassiter was clearly aghast. “Attack a sergeant?” he said disbelievingly. “You must be joking. I would never do something like that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m due at the command center in five minutes and I don’t want to be late.” And with that he walked away.
Tychus turned to watch him go. Besides the fact that the guy was completely delusional, there was something weird about Lassiter’s demeanor … something that reminded him of the overly courteous admin clerk, the bright-eyed sentries assigned to keep Vanderspool safe, and something the colonel had said: “… if you think hard labor was bad, you can only imagine what else we’re capable of. You might just end up a prisoner in your own body.” What did that mean, anyway? Had the Confederacy come up with a new program? A way to take a wild man like Lassiter and turn him into a human robot? There was no way to be sure, but as Tychus continued on his way, he had one more thing to worry about.
There were only three people aboard the dropship. The pilot, Feek, who was acting as jump master, and Lance Corporal Jim Raynor. Tychus had offered to come along and shove his friend into the abyss, but Raynor had declined.
Five extremely busy days had passed since his meeting with Tychus, and now, with Colonel Vanderspool’s blessing, Raynor was about to drop into Kel-Morian-held territory alone. It was a stupid, stupid thing to do, and he knew that now. But maybe, just maybe, the mission was a way to atone for stealing the trucks. And it was something he knew his parents would be proud of.
One thing was for sure—there would be no turning back, since the blacked-out transport was already over enemy territory. Raynor had taken the utmost care to learn everything he could about the Kel-Morian prisoner he would be impersonating. Fortunately, they were about the same height and had similar builds. Raynor had watched intelligence officers interrogate the pilot via a closed circuit feed, and had been given access to his personal property as well, which included the contents of his fone. So Raynor knew all sorts of things about Ras Hagar, including his wife’s name, how many children he had, and what kind of music he liked. Would it be enough? No, not if the Kel-Morians scanned his retinas, but there was little chance of that. From what the captured pilot said, they were so short on tech supplies, scanners were nearly impossible to find. All he had to do was play his role right, and there wouldn’t be any doubt as to who he was.
Raynor was trying to focus on remembering his alter ego’s story, but his mind was swirling with worry. The dropship was flying in from the west as a half-dozen Avengers were conducting a raid a few miles to the south as a diversion. Would the KMs notice the additional blip on their screens? Yes, they would, but Raynor and the crew were taking a gamble that the dropship would come off their list of threats as soon as it turned back.
Feek came back to see him. The technician’s visor was open so Raynor could see his expression. What was it anyway? Admiration? Pity? Or some combination of the two? He would never know. “We’re five minutes out,” Feek said. “It’s time to get in position and start your final check.”
“Thanks,” Raynor said. He was already standing up. Having shuffled forward to the point where the rectangular-shaped black abyss awaited him, it was time to run a last check on the suit. Here’s your chance, an inner voice said. If there’s something wrong with your suit you can’t jump. Nobody would question that.
But another voice could be heard as well. And it belonged to his father. “A lie is like an infection, Son… . It burrows deep inside and makes you sick.”
Besides, there were the POWs to think about, and the memory of the way Hobarth looked was enough to strengthen Raynor’s resolve. So Raynor ran one last check, saw all of the indicators come up green, and gave a thumbs-up to Feek. He nodded, the pilot said, “Good luck” over the intercom, and it was time to close his visor as the final countdown began. He could see it on his HUD and hear it in his ears. “Five, four, three, two, one.”
Knowing how important timing was going to be, Raynor started moving on three, was halfway through the hatch on two, and in freefall as the countdown hit “one.” Everything was pitch-black. There were no visual cues to go by other than the displays on his HUD. But practice made perfect, and Raynor was pleased to discover that his body knew what to do. As the altimeter in the upper left hand corner of his vision continued to unwind, he was head over feet and stable.
When the jet pack came on, it felt as though he were being propelled upward, but only for a moment, as the CMC-230-XE began to slow, and surface winds threatened to tip him over. But Raynor knew how to compensate, and did so, as the thrust continued to increase and a ghostly green landscape began to populate his HUD.
However, there wasn’t any time to admire the view as the ground rushed up, Raynor flexed his knees, and the hardskin did likewise. Then came the impact as his boots hit, the jet pack shut itself off, and he was down. Ironically, it was the best landing he had ever executed, day or night, and there wasn’t anyone around to appreciate his accomplishment.
Well, there wasn’t supposed to be anyone, but the possibility of bad luck was always a factor, and Raynor took a quick look around to ensure that he hadn’t come down right on top of a KM patrol. But there was no sign of anything other than a glowing green animal that eyed him for a moment before scurrying away.
Satisfied that he was safe, for the moment at least, it was time to look for a suitable hiding place. After casting about for a bit, Raynor came across a depression and went about the clumsy process of lying down in it. Which, given the jet pack on his back, was more like leaning on something rather than lying flat.
Then it was time to exit his armor. Raynor chinned a control, opened a latch, and was rewarded with a hissing sound as the hardskin opened and pressures were equalized. Raynor pushed the top half aside, kicked his way free of the control interfaces, and struggled to his feet. With only a Kel-Morian flight suit to protect him, the night air was cold.
But there was work to do, beginning with the need to arm a self-destruct system that would destroy both the CMC-230-XE and everything within a twenty-foot radius were someone to tamper with it. With that out of the way, it was time to cover the hardskin with a thin sheet of protective camo cloth and a layer of loose rocks to keep the rig from being discovered. That took Raynor more than an hour and left him feeling as tired as Hellhound pilot Ras Hagar would be after seven days of making his way out of the zone.