The 2nd platoon jogged past as Booly made his way toward the hangar where the final briefing was scheduled to take place. The Naa ran double time, or one hundred twenty paces to the minute, and sang verse three of
Le Boudin
:
Our forebearers knew how to die
For the glory of the Legion;
We shall all know how to perish,
Following tradition.
The officer looked up into the quickly darkening sky. Had the first blow been struck? He certainly hoped so ... because if the newly named Rear Admiral Tyspin failed to provide the necessary air support the raid was doomed from the start.
The muties had spy sats, plenty of them, many of which could and did monitor his activities. They were up there right now, watching the airport, feeding data to Harco.
Tyspin’s job was to take them out. Not just some, the ones that could report on Africa, but all of them
worldwide
. It would be a major blow if the admiral could pull it off.
The suggestion to enlarge the scope of the mission to include strategic objectives had originated with Chien-Chu. That was proof of the industrialist’s experience and long range purpose—all of which made Booly feel better about the older man’s motives.
The troops were assembled and waiting by the time Booly passed under the hangar’s lights. Not ideal prior to a night mission, but there would be time for their eyes to adjust. The legionnaires stood in a semicircle, their backs to an old bush beater, the smell of fuel hanging in the air.
Fykes had gone to some lengths in order to beat his commanding officer into the hangar, and looked sharp enough for inspection. He shouted “Ten-hut!” and the entire squadron crashed to attention.
Booly nodded and scanned their faces. The words were Naa. “Welcome to Operation Phoenix. The objective of tonight’s mission is to rescue a prisoner, put the resistance effort on the offensive, and kick some mutie ass. That okay with you?”
The Naa were thrilled to hear their language. More than two hundred voices replied in unison. “Sir! Yes, sir!”
Booly grinned and switched to standard. “I thought you might say that! All right ... let’s run the mission one last time.” He looked at his wrist term.
“We load twenty-eight from now, and lift at 1800. There are two birds, one for the 1st and one for the 2nd. Decoys will depart just before we do, scatter in every direction, and lead the fighters away.
“I’m going with the 1st. Lieutenant Nightslip will command the 2nd. Standard night ops and radio procedures are in force. Check your wrist terms for call signs, passwords, and a copy of the TO.”
Booly motioned to a tech, said, “Light the tank,” and accepted the remote. He pointed to a spot in what had been the ancient country of Ethiopia. “This is Addis Ababa, or what’s left of it,
after
your last visit.”
The city had been one of the Legion’s favorite watering holes prior to the revolt, and most of the troops had been there. They laughed, just as they were supposed to, and Booly waited for the noise to subside.
“The muties fly a transport out of here at roughly 1900 hours every evening and head straight for Johannesburg.
“Tonight will be different. The transport will run into a shoulder-launched missile just south of Jima. That will be our cue to pop onto the radar and complete their journey. Questions?”
One of the older legionnaires, a brindled corporal, raised his hand. “Yes, sir. That makes
two
blips instead of one. Won’t they notice?”
“Not if we fly so close together that we can swap scents,” Booly replied in Naa.
The aliens laughed, while their human counterparts looked nervous. Had the joke been on them? There was no way for them to know.
Another hand went up. The officer nodded. A silverback asked his question. “What about the return trip, sir? What if we lose a transport?”
“Good question,” Booly replied. “Each aircraft will be half full. If we lose one bird, the other will collect the survivors. Anything else?”
There
was
one other question—but no one chose to ask it. What if they lost
both
transports? The answer was obvious.
“So,” Booly continued, “the 2nd will attack the antenna farm just south of town, do what damage they can, and boogie. The 1st will land, secure a four block area, and release the prisoner.
“While we’re busy doing that, Captain Hawkins will drop a heavily armed reaction force into the hills near Kasama, Zambia, in case we’re in trouble and need a friendly place to land. The swabbies will send air cover. Questions?”
No one spoke this time, so Booly released the troops to their NCOs, slipped into his combat harness, and joined the 1st.
Each legionnaire carried the same basic combat load. It included frag grenades, smoke grenades, flash grenades, a wicked assortment of highly personalized combat cutlery, sidearms, assault rifles, and twelve 30-round ammo clips. Each of them had been lightened by two rounds, in order to ease the pressure on the feeder spring and ensure its ability to shove a round into the weapon’s receiver.
That was an old theory, and entirely fallacious as far as Booly knew, but taken seriously by the troops.
Specialists, and that included the machine gunners, rocket teams, mortar squad, medical personnel, and com techs, carried additional gear, though less than a full field kit.
Everyone
humped extra belts of ammo, rockets, and power paks.
The legionnaires paired off, checked each other’s gear, and jumped up and down. Anything that clicked, rattled, or squeaked was identified and secured. Once that process was complete, the troops boarded the transports.
One aircraft had been stolen by an airline pilot, and still bore the company’s markings, while the other belonged to Chien-Chu. The diversionary craft, few of which would make it back, had already departed. Rescue units had been dispatched to retrieve the pilots.
The moment of departure seemed almost anticlimatic after all the effort involved in preparing for it. The ships rose, turned toward the west, and skimmed the desert. A group of nomads, their tents flapping in the breeze, turned to watch them go. The night swallowed them whole.
Tyspin took one last look around. In spite of the fact that the bridge crew was composed entirely of humans, the loose, nearly transparent folds of their emergency pressure suits made them look alien.
Everything that
could
be nailed down
had
been nailed down in case the argrav failed. Engineering had assured her that all systems were good to go, damage control was on standby, and, with the exception of missile launcher P3, which needed parts, the ship’s weapons were on-line. Some of the would-be mutineers had been reintegrated into the crew; others remained under lock and key.
Tyspin stared into the battle tank that separated the command chair from the control consoles. Earth looked much as she would if viewed from one of forward ports. An enormous blue-green globe, mottled with brown and capped with white. The moon huddled beyond, while all sorts of space habs, ships, and satellites orbited.
The latter came in two colors—red for the muties, or those objects that
might
be mutie, and blue, as in
true blue
, for loyalist assets.
The number of red symbols was roughly equal to the number of blue symbols, which, in the absence of active leadership, had resulted in defensive clustering.
It was almost as if the mutie ships didn’t
want
to fight, or thought they wouldn’t have to . . . which made Tyspin wonder what they knew that she didn’t. Had some sort of deal been struck with the Confederacy? Where
were
the worthless bastards, anyway?
Lieutenant Rawlings put an end to her mental meanderings. “All units report battle readiness, ma’am.”
Tyspin nodded, fought the urge to clutch the arms of her chair, and gave the necessary order. “Phase one ... execute.”
It seemed as though the words were barely out of the officer’s mouth when the tiny red dots started to vanish off the display.
Those located nearest the loyalist ships were destroyed first, followed by mid-range targets, and a few on the far side of the planet. Spy sats mostly, mined by tiny self-propelled robots and rigged to blow.
The response was a little slower than Tyspin had expected. Were the muties napping? Or was their chain of command subject to the same sort of vacillation that hers was? They had all come up through the same system—so the question was stupid.
The naval officer shrugged, ordered her ships to attack, and said a little prayer. It was silent, but Rawlings read her lips. The “amen” was hers.
The lights were red, to protect their night vision, and purposely dim. Booly watched his troops through half-closed eyes, noting how those seated in close proximity to him handled the stress.
The civilian videographer, a wispy woman named Claire something or other, fussed over her equipment. Booly didn’t like the idea of holo coverage, but Chien-Chu insisted that the RFE broadcasts were important and promised to control the hype.
Lance Corporal Fareyes squinted at a Ramanthian slot puzzle, slid a piece sideways, and swore when it didn’t fit.
Corporal Warmfeel continued to hone an already sharp clan knife, his eyes unfocused, his jaw hanging slack.
Private Hardswim snored softly until his head fell forward. That was his cue to jerk it back, peer at his companions, and start all over.
Fykes dealt a card to Neversmile, scanned the Naa’s countenance for an expression, and failed to find one.
The engines droned monotonously, air blew against the back of the officer’s neck, and the miles slipped away.
The
Gladiator
flinched as another flight of missiles left her launchers and flashed toward the enemy. Most were detected and intercepted. Two made it through. They struck the
Conquistador
aft of her heat stacks, and punched their way through the older ship’s hull. She shuddered, exploded in a sudden flash of light, and disappeared. A cloud of metal, flesh, and bone marked her final orbit.
The bridge crew cheered and slapped each other on the back. Tyspin clutched the arms of her chair. “There will be silence on this bridge! You can celebrate when the battle is over, assuming you’re alive—and assuming you have the stomach for it.”
The celebration stopped, and the naval officer regretted her words. The crew were entitled to their celebration, but she had served on the
Conquistador,
and knew some of the crew. Not as enemies, but as friends.
She eyed the holo tank. A dozen red deltas, each of which was an enemy vessel, were formed into a globe. Their flagship, the
Samurai
, hung at its center. The gap left by the
Conquistador
spoke for itself.
Tyspin gave the order: ‟
Gladiator
to battle group. Close on me. Prepare to engage.”
Booly felt someone touch his shoulder, snapped into instant wakefulness, and was surprised to find that he had fallen asleep. Fykes nodded. “We’re fifteen from the LZ, sir. Figured you’d want to join in the fun.”
Booly grinned. “Thanks, Sergeant. How’re the troops?”
“Cranky, sir,” Fykes replied solemnly. “I feel sorry for the enemy.”
“As do I, Sergeant, as do I,” Booly said as he came to his feet. “Tell them to check each other’s gear. I’ll return in a moment.”
The door to the flight deck hung open, and Booly entered. Clusters of lights sparkled against the darkness below, and there, on the near horizon, was the white-green glow of a major city. Johannesburg. The officer cleared his throat. “How’re we doing?”
Padia turned and smiled. His eyes were bloodshot, and he needed a shave. “So far, so good, Colonel. Joberg control wanted to know if I had an aircraft off my port wing. I told ’em no. They bought it, for the moment anyway.”
Booly nodded. “Good work. Anything on the news? Like a battle up in space?”
Padia shook his head. “No, but the number-one GPS system went down. That’ll play hell with everything from robotrucks to microbots. The backup came on—but with partial coverage. Does that answer your question?”
“Partially,” Booly replied. “But it would be nice to know for sure. We’re gonna need some air cover.”
“Amen to that,” the pilot said fervently. “I’ll work the radios the moment we land. Maybe the RFE has something.”
Booly glanced at the copilot. Her head lolled to one side, and she snored softly. “You gonna wake her up?”
Padia shook his head. “Nah.... Not unless I need her.”
Booly shook his head in wonder. Civilians. Who could understand them?
Captain Milo Stitt hated the militia uniform he’d been ordered to wear, didn’t like night duty, and wasn’t very fond of Africa. That being the case, he prowled the area like a caged beast and found fault with nearly everything he saw.
Private Wasu watched the officer approach, wondered how the Academy could produce such assholes, and came to rigid attention. He, like the rest of the 120 soldiers assigned to the complex wore militia cammies. Fine for the veldt ... but worthless in the city.
Stitt eyed Wasu, failed to find anything to complain about, and felt vaguely resentful. That’s when something huge roared over their heads and settled toward a warehouse roof.
“Damn,” the sentry said in wonderment. “What the hell was that?”
“What the hell was that,
sir
,” Stitt corrected him, as he watched the aircraft descend. The answer was obvious: “That” was a medium-sized transport. The kind that could carry a sizeable number of troops and wasn’t supposed to be there. He triggered the com. “This is Bounder One.... We have a class one airspace violation. I want illumination on building four.... Fire on my command. Over.”
The rules of engagement were clear: Stitt could open fire if he chose to, but he didn’t consider that to be wise. Not without at least one attempt to make contact. He switched to what he hoped was the correct frequency.