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.”
“It’s a good plan,” Raynor said dryly, “so long as they don’t fry you.”
Harnack might have replied, but the two men were inside the lobby by then, and being herded into the auditorium beyond. It was large enough to hold hundreds of people, so every member of the thirty-five-person platoon got a seat in the first row.
It took a few minutes to get everyone settled in, but once they were, Colonel Vanderspool appeared from the wings and marched to the center of the stage. Then, looking down at Tychus, he said, “Sergeant, is everyone accounted for?”
The officer was wearing a lip mic and his voice boomed over the theater’s sound system. Had Tychus known that Doc’s effort to humiliate Lieutenant Quigby would cause the officer to be transferred, thereby leaving him in charge of the platoon, he would have put a stop to the harassment. Because the last thing Tychus wanted was to be in charge of anything other than a large bank account. But Quigby was gone and there was a shortage of line officers, which meant he’d have to fill the slot until a replacement came in. So all he could do was look up at Vanderspool and say, “Yes, sir. All present, sir.”
“Excellent,” Vanderspool responded as a carefully crafted smile appeared on his handsome face. “I have some very good news for the STM platoon. After weeks of training, you have a mission! And not just any mission. This is the sort of outing we had in mind when those CMC-230 suits were issued to you.
“In fact, if this effort goes the way we hope it will, our goal is to use you and your new hardskins to help capture the Kel-Morian strategic resources repository in the city of Polk’s Pride. It’s a critical objective—one that we are certain will decide the outcome of the war on Turaxis II.” His smile broadened even more as he swept his gaze across the line of soldiers. “How would you like to be the Confederacy’s most celebrated war heroes?”
The reaction from the soldiers was glum in spite of Vanderspool’s enthusiastic pitch, and a few whispers were exchanged. “Ah, yes,” Vanderspool continued cheerfully. “Some of you may know that we have attempted to cross the Paddick River and attack the repository before. Unfortunately, we failed. But trust me—we will try again, and we will succeed. You have my word.
“But, before we get started with Polk’s Pride, let’s take a look at the immediate objective.” As the lights went down and a holo appeared on the stage, Vanderspool moved to one side.
“The image you’re looking at was captured by an orbiting battlecruiser,” Vanderspool explained. “The pictures they took were computer enhanced and combined to create the map you see on the screen.”
As Raynor studied the image, he saw what he took to be three hills, each crowned with a fortification. Between them, and surrounded by what appeared to be a plascrete barrier, was what looked like a military camp. Six long, narrow buildings could be seen side by side. Two more were set off from the others, and a command center with a comsat station was located next to several supply depots and a water tower. Access roads wound here and there, dotted with blister-shaped bunkers that bracketed all of the main entry points.