The tattoos took time, as did the enormous breakfast that followed, so it was about 0500 before the Devils finally reentered the base and made their way back to the barracks. And that was where First Lieutenant Samantha Sanchez was waiting for them.
The officer had black hair worn in a buzz cut, a face that might have been pretty with a little bit of makeup, and a blocky body that was all muscle and no fat. Unlike Quigby, Sanchez wasn’t insecure, didn’t need to run her mouth, and, judging from her hands-on-hips stance, wasn’t going to take crap from anybody. Not even Tychus, whom she chose to address first.
“Are you in charge of the first squad? I thought so… . My name is Sanchez. I want your people out front and ready to run the perimeter of the base at 0530. No excuses, no exceptions, and no bullshit. Do you scan me, Sergeant?”
Tychus had served under all sorts of officers during his years in the military and knew the real deal when he saw it. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Five by five.”
“Good,” Sanchez replied, as if she would have been surprised by any other response. “Maybe you’ve heard of a city called Polk’s Pride… . It seems that the KMs have a strategic resources repository there. And we’re going to be part of the effort to capture it. If we succeed it will shorten the war. Questions?”
Kydd raised a hand. “Didn’t the first attack fail?”
Sanchez nodded. “That’s right… . And the second attack failed too. So we’ll have our work cut out for us. Any more questions? No? Well, get your shit together. Because you’ll be up to your asses in Kel-Morians a few days from now and I expect this platoon to do its part. That is all.” Sanchez did an about-face and left.
Harnack watched her go. “So what was that about?”
Raynor was tired, sore, and sickeningly hung over. It took considerable effort to produce a smile. “That was her way of saying, ‘howdy,’” Raynor replied weakly. “It was all stick and no carrot. Same way Tychus runs things.”
Harnack shrugged. “Works for me… . I don’t like vegetables.” He grinned in response to his own joke and slapped a wobbly Raynor on the arm as they headed for the barracks.
“Ow! Watch it.” Raynor’s arm seared with pain, and as he walked, he lifted his sleeve to see if any of the swelling had gone down. He peeled back the gauze bandage. No such luck. The skeleton was plump and fleshy, and the heaven’ sdevils banner was three-dimensional. As if it had come to life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“… and here at the home offices, our own staff is experiencing a changing of the guard. Six members of the UNN executive board stepped down today, citing ‘personal and professional differences with the current network philosophies.’ This change was followed by two dozen layoffs as the UNN hierarchy went through what one shareholder called ‘significant restructuring.’ What this will mean for the media giant and its subsidiary stations is the subject of much debate.”
THE CITY OF POLK’S PRIDE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
Polk’s Pride had once been the second largest city on Turaxis II, with a population of four million people and a thriving economy. Back before the wars, it had been famous for hundreds of man-made canals that not only gave the metropolis its special flavor, but fed barge traffic onto the heavily traveled river that meandered through the downtown area. In fact, the Paddick flowed for more than a thousand miles before eventually emptying into the planet’s single ocean.
By now, all but a few hundred thousand of Polk’s Pride’s population had been forced out into the countryside, where dozens of refugee camps were set up to accommodate them, and the city was split in two. For the moment the area north of the Paddick River was in Kel-Morian hands—and the Confederacy controlled everything south of it. But that was subject to change as the battle for the city seesawed back and forth.
As a result of the ongoing conflict, a mile-wide swath of land along both sides of the river lay in ruins. Buildings had been bombed into rubble, streets were filled with fallen debris, and once-picturesque canals were blocked by half-submerged wrecks.
Along the banks of the river the remains of the city’s once-graceful bridges could be seen. Each had been different, but beautiful in its own way, which was why they had been known as “The Seven Sisters.”
All of them were lying in the river now. There was always less flow at that time of year, so that, combined with a drought up north, had caused the water level to drop to a record low. But occasionally a pile of debris would build up behind one of the spans, only to be broken by the weight of the water behind it, thereby releasing a momentary flood. And there, mixed in with all of the other trash that regularly came their way, the people who lived downstream would find hundreds of half-rotted bodies.
It was a public health problem, not to mention a gruesome sight, so they tried to sort them out at first. The idea being to bury Kel-Morians with Kel-Morians and Confederates with Confederates, both because it was assumed the opposing armies would want it that way, and as a sort of insurance policy—it wasn’t clear which side was going to win and therefore be in charge. But as things turned out, there were far too many bodies for the civilians to deal with, which meant they were forced to inter the dead soldiers in mass graves.
Such was the landscape as Colonel Vanderspool led Lieutenant Sanchez and her platoon through the once thriving streets of south Polk’s Pride to the edge of no-man’s-land. The office tower that loomed above them was still largely intact even though Kel-Morian sloths located on the far side of the river routinely used it for target practice.
Broken glass crunched under Raynor’s boots as Harnack said, “Whoa … check that out,” and pointed upward. The back end of a Hellhound could be seen sticking out of an office on the fire-ravaged twenty-sixth floor. Raynor wondered if the dead pilot was still sitting in his cockpit or had been removed by a graves registration team.
There wasn’t any power in the building, so they had to climb nine flights of stairs to reach Vanderspool’s objective. Since the enemy was on the opposite side of the river, the men hadn’t been required to wear full combat armor, so they were relying on their own strength. Tychus, who had never seen Vanderspool do much more than strut around Fort Howe, was surprised to learn that the officer could climb nine stories without breaking a sweat.
Finally, a fire door with the number 9 on it appeared, and Vanderspool led the platoon down a hall and into a trash-strewn office. A squad of marines was there waiting for them. When Master Sergeant Rockwell hollered, “Atten-hut!” all of them crashed to attention.
Rockwell was a man with whom Raynor and Tychus were well acquainted. As the battalion’s senior NCO, Rockwell had a lot of power and liked to use it. And there was something about the Heaven’s Devils that cracked him off, so his hobby was coming up with shit details for Tychus and the squad to take care of.
And now, as Rockwell’s squad stood in perfect alignment, with their backs ramrod straight, they could have been awaiting inspection. That was over the top, even for marines, especially in a combat zone. And as Raynor examined them more closely, he saw that they all wore the same thousand-yard stares, perfect uniforms, and spit-shined boots. The whole thing made him uncomfortable.
“At ease,” Vanderspool said, as if he were used to being received in that fashion. He gestured to the view. “Do you see the tower over there on top of the hill? The tall, skinny one?”