“What you’re looking at is a prisoner of war camp,” Vanderspool informed them gravely. “It’s called Kel-Morian Internment Camp-36, or KIC-36, and more than four hundred of our brave soldiers and pilots are being held there. And not just held, but tortured, and in some cases murdered. But there’s no need for me to describe what goes on inside the camp, because we are about to have the privilege of hearing about it firsthand from one of the few people to successfully escape, a young pilot who proves that anything is possible.” He stepped back and clapped for several seconds before extending a hand toward the approaching figure, a sympathetic smile on his face. The battalion offered a polite round of applause.
Aided by a cane and accompanied by a medic, a frail-looking figure shambled out to join Vanderspool. She looked like a skeleton over which parchmentlike skin had been stretched. “This is Captain Clair Hobarth,” Vanderspool said soberly. “Her dropship was shot down; she was captured and taken to KIC-36, where she was held for three months before she managed to escape. The two prisoners who tried to flee with her weren’t so lucky. I was opposed to her coming, but she insisted, because she regards the men and women she left behind as brothers and sisters. Captain Hobarth?”
Hobarth’s voice was hoarse, but thanks to the mic she was wearing, her words could be heard. “Good morning … thank you all for what you have already accomplished—and will accomplish on behalf of the prisoners of KIC-36.” She drew a slow, deep breath. “I’m not here to tell you a sob story about the months I spent there. I’m here to tell you how to attack the camp, kill the animals who run it, and rescue our people.”
Somebody started to clap, more fervently this time, and Raynor joined in. Here, after the attack on Fort Howe and the looting of the armory, was what he’d been waiting for: something he could believe in. “Thank you,” Hobarth said humbly, as she produced a laser pointer, and a red dot began to roam the 3-D image. Each item it passed grew larger and began to rotate, so that the audience could view it from various angles.
“By now you’ve noticed these hills.” she said. “They’re all about the same height and topped with missile turrets, defensive guns, and pop-up turrets. And, because there are three of them, anyone who tries to attack the camp will enter a crossfire.
“That’s bad,” Hobarth croaked, “but making the situation even worse is the fact that some of these weapons could be depressed to fire on the camp itself. And believe me, the camp’s overseer, the man we called ‘Brucker the Butcher,’ wouldn’t hesitate to do so.”
Hobarth paused at that point as if to let the information sink in before continuing the briefing. “So, if you’re going to rescue our people, you’ve got to neutralize the hilltop fortifications first… . And that’s where your special capabilities come into play.”
Hobarth paused at that point, as if to summon more energy, before continuing on. “Here’s how it’s going to work,” she continued. “Dropships will fly you over the site. You’ll jump, land on all three hills at the same time, and destroy the weapons installations there. At that point you will make your way downhill, engage the guards, and take control.”
Raynor watched the red dot draw a line around the camp. “Having blown holes in the charged shock wall, you’ll evacuate the POWs to the landing pad located here.” As the red dot came into contact with it, the 3-D image grew larger and began to rotate. “By that time other members of your battalion will have landed to provide you with support and a succession of dropships will arrive to evac the POWs. A squadron of Avengers will be on hand to keep the Kel-Morian Hellhounds off your backs. Oh, and one more thing… .” she added, with all the volume she could muster. “When you get back—the beer is on me!”
That announcement produced a very enthusiastic cheer, and Vanderspool smiled indulgently as he returned to center stage. “Thank you, Captain Hobarth… . That was an excellent presentation. And I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into— because the men and women of the 321st are very thirsty!”
The audience chuckled appreciatively as Hobarth raised a skeletal hand, smiled weakly, and plodded offstage.
“Okay,” Vanderspool said soberly, “that’s the overview. Obviously it will be necessary to solve a lot of tactical problems before you’ll be ready to carry out a mission of this complexity. And that’s what we’ll be working on over the next couple of weeks. In the meantime, remember this: Security is of the utmost importance. Surprise is a key element of the plan that Captain Hobarth described to you, and there are Kel-Morian sympathizers in the area. So don’t discuss the mission when you’re off duty. Not even with each other. Do you scan me?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Good. Training will commence at 1400 hours. Acting platoon leader Findlay will be in charge. Dismissed.”
Raynor looked left, saw his friend scowl, and grinned. Tychus might not be much of a strategist, but he was a natural leader, and the perfect person to lead the raid on KIC-36. Even if he was going to bitch about the responsibility twenty-five hours a day! The next couple of weeks would be interesting.
Tychus stood up and eyed the faces around him. “So what are you people waiting for? An engraved invitation? Get your butts in gear… . We have work to do.” Preparations had begun.
Camp Crash, as it soon came to be known, was located about ten miles southwest of Fort Howe. It consisted of two hills, with an old gravel pit centered between them, and a couple of ramshackle buildings off to one side. And, because the STM platoon had been given its own dropship to train with, they could travel to and from Camp Crash in a matter of minutes.
As training day three dawned, and the platoon prepared to board the Sweetie Pie, Tychus gave them his version of a pep talk. “You people are pathetic,” he began. “The plan is to jump out of the dropship and land on your feet, not your heads! Control is the key… . So quit screwing around.”
They had heard it all before. Control was the key. But how to accomplish it? Piloting the Thunderstrike armor during carefully monitored training exercises was one thing, but controlling it under combat conditions was something else, and only a third of the platoon’s thirty-five soldiers were any good at it.
Unfortunately Raynor wasn’t one of them, and as he boarded the Sweetie Pie it felt as though ball bearings were rolling around in the pit of his stomach. He was among those who had crashed the day before, which forced Feek to stay up all night repairing Raynor’s CMC-230-XE.
The truth was that “flying” one of the hardskins took as much skill as piloting an Avenger. So how many 230-XEs could the Confederacy realistically put into service? Not very damned many, not in Raynor’s opinion anyway, because it would be too expensive and time consuming.
The dropship took off and began to climb. Raynor was nervous, but Tychus was there to comfort him. “Try not to embarrass me again,” the noncom said, as he stopped in front of Raynor. “You looked ridiculous yesterday. If you’re determined to kill yourself,” he growled, “the least you could do is wait for the actual mission, and dive headfirst into a missile turret! Then I could put you in for a medal. Your parents would like that.” He produced a cheerless, fake smile, and was gone half a second later. Having spread his own special brand of joy, Tychus moved on to speak with the next team member.
A few minutes later the ship reached 8,000 feet, turned toward the southwest, and began the first run of what promised to be a long day. Both of the side doors and the specially rigged floor hatch were open, so the dropship’s slipstream was buffeting the soldier who was acting as jump master. Protected as he was by the CMC-230-XE, Raynor barely noticed the breeze as he lined up behind a private named Pauley. She was one of the “naturals,” a person with a natural affinity for Thunderstrike armor, and showed no signs of hesitation as she fell through the hatch and disappeared.