“What he says is true,” Orin said calmly, as he spoke for the first time since they had entered the office. He twirled a wand stylus in his fingers. The larger sergeant’s deep, resonant voice was a sharp contrast to Corly’s. He had brown skin, and his piercing blue eyes had shifted to Corly by then. “He does have a helluva record—and he is a skilled sniper. In fact, the commanding officer of Firebase Zulu put him in for a medal.”
That was news to Kydd. A medal! It was hard to believe. Here was further validation of what he already knew inside. He was good at something, and the military was his home.
“So, where does that leave us?” Corly asked.
Kydd’s eyes shifted desperately between the two sergeants.
Orin was silent for a moment, and when the noncom spoke, his eyes were slightly out of focus as if seeing himself in another time and place. “Lying to get out of the Corps was wrong. But Private Kydd admits that—and all of us make mistakes. And sometimes, if we’re real lucky, somebody cuts us some slack.” He looked squarely at Kydd. “You’re a credit to the Confederacy, son, and you exemplify everything the marines stand for. Private Kydd, unless Sergeant Corly here disagrees, I believe you’re free to go.”
Kydd looked immediately at Corly, who nodded sagely and smiled. “You’re a lifer, boy. Pure and simple.” He pressed both hands on the table. “This case is closed.”
The young soldier surprised everyone—himself included—by letting out an audible sigh of relief. He recovered quickly and was grinning from ear to ear as he stood up and shook hands with the men who saved Private Ryk Kydd.
Three days had passed since the raid on the Kel-Morian base, it was about 2000 hours, and the HTD was crawling with pilots, marines, and rangers. A lot of them went bar to bar up and down the main drag, looking for the perfect watering hole, but never finding it.
The single exception was Three Fingered Jack’s, which was so packed that it was difficult to get in or out. A blue haze hovered over the tables, the buzz of conversation made it difficult to hear, and a live band added to the cacophony of sound. Raynor, Tychus, Harnack, Doc, Ward, and Kydd were seated at a large round table at the center of the room. Other members of the 321st were present as well, along with about fifty ex-POWs, and about half of the pilots who had rescued the whole bunch of them from the disputed zone. It was a very rowdy crowd.
But when a vehicle delivered Captain Hobarth and her medical aide out front, a path magically opened up before her, and everyone broke into applause as she shuffled back into the main room. Then, once she raised a skeletal hand, the noise died down, and it was Three Fingered Jack himself who handed the pilot a mic. “First,” the captain said hoarsely, as she looked around the room. “I want to toast the brave soldiers who led this dangerous mission. Here’s to our heroes, a group of fine men and women whose name shall be echoed for generations to come—our very own Heaven’s Devils!”
The crowd cheered. By that time Speer’s on-the-scene reporting had been seen throughout the Confederacy—and the entire crowd was familiar with the STM platoon’s new nickname. Thunderous applause resonated throughout the room as everyone who wasn’t already standing came to their feet and turned to face the table where the soldiers were seated. Tychus grinned broadly, Raynor looked embarrassed, Harnack struck a pose, Kydd gazed around in awe, Zander frowned disapprovingly, Ward stared at his hands, and Doc was too high to know what was going on.
Hobarth smiled, and when the noise dropped down, she spoke again. “Secondly, I want to thank the entire 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion for rescuing my brothers and sisters from KIC-36.”
That provoked another round of clapping, as the entire battalion came in for some well-deserved recognition, and the Heaven’s Devils joined in.
Hobarth nodded soberly as the noise died down. “Last, but not least,” the officer said, as she extended her hand to accept a shot glass of Scotty Bolger’s whiskey. “I would like to propose a toast. This is for the fine men and women who gave their lives for the Confederacy and their fellow soldiers. We shall hold them in our hearts and minds until the time comes to join them. Then, as now, we’ll get drunk as hell! The next round is on me!”
The next couple of hours were a smoky, booze-drenched blur from which Raynor awoke to a buzzing sound, as a sharp object dragged across his arm. Then the worst of the pain went away as the bald man on the stool next to him swore and got up to take a fone call.
Raynor struggled to focus his eyes and get his bearings. He was surrounded by tiny drawings, no—tattoo designs. Thousands of them, laminated and tacked to the walls, corners blowing in the breeze created by a rusty fan.
Raynor had a vague memory of leaving Three Fingered Jack’s with the rest of the squad and staggering down the main drag. He remembered stopping to take a piss on a brick building. And he remembered stumbling past neon lights into a doorway with Tychus’s heavy arm slung around his shoulder.
“Ty-chus … Ty-chus … Ty-chus,” Raynor called out in a sing-songy voice. He heard a grunt originate from behind him. He followed the direction of the voice and saw that Tychus was laid out on a table, where a woman with bright blue hair was busy inking a new tat onto his sculpted abs. For his part the big man was puffing on a cigar while staring at the artist’s cleavage.
Raynor got up, stumbled over to the table, and squinted at the design. It was blurry at first, but when the image rolled into focus, Raynor found himself looking at a winged skeleton. It was partially concealed by a hooded robe, and armed with an old-fashioned rotary machine gun. There was a mushroom-shaped cloud in the background, and the name heaven’ sdevils was spelled out on the banner over the skeleton’s head. “I like that,” Raynor said thickly. “I like that a lot.”
“I sure hope so!” Ward yelled out, but Raynor didn’t understand why.
“Mine’s better,” Doc said as she looked back over a bare shoulder. “Check it out.” She was seated on a stool about ten feet away with a tattoo artist behind and to her left.
Raynor was proud of the way he was able to cross the intervening section of floor without falling down. The tattoo artist smiled and moved to one side so he could see. As Raynor examined her shoulder tattoo, he realized that it was exactly like the one Tychus was getting except that the machine gun had been supplanted by a huge syringe and needle!
“Whaddya think?” Cassidy asked. “Cool, huh?”
“Very,” Raynor replied airily. “It’s just like Tychus’s. Cute, very cute, you two.” He waggled a finger at Doc and turned back to face Tychus, at which point he delivered a wink and a smile. “Matching tattoos, huh?”
Raynor heard laughter from all around the shop, and wondered what he was missing.
The bald man came to collect him. “Come on,” he said. “We’re about halfway through yours.”
As the man led Raynor back to his table he realized that the Heaven’s Devils had taken over the establishment and all of them were getting tattoos!
“Sit down, champ,” the man said patiently. “And hold still.”
Raynor heard more snickering from all around him. He laughed too, not knowing why. “Yup, you got it.” He closed his eyes and took a nap.