First to Fight (32 page)

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

“By the grace of God who is above all Gods, Wad Mohammad, we know where they go,” the survivor of the attack at the rocks reported. He knelt on the rocks before his clan chief, who sat on an elaborately carved folding chair. His subchiefs and attendants stood in an arc behind him.

“There was an arm of you, and you are the only survivor?” Wad Mohammad asked. His voice was level, but disbelief and danger were in his eyes.

“By the grace of God who is above all Gods, Wad Mohammad, this is the truth.” The survivor trembled slightly, but managed not to quake in his fear.

“There were how many of these off-world Marines?”

“Eight, Wad Mohammad.”

The clan chief knew without being told how many Marines there were. Having the survivor admit to the small number gave truth to the man’s story. Had he said there were so many off-world Marines that anyone could understand them defeating a Siad arm, then he would be lying. If he was lying, Wad Mohammad would kill him now. “Twelve of you and eight of them.” Wad Mohammad’s voice developed a distinctly cold edge. “You alone of us survived. How many of their heads did you take?”

The survivor threw himself prostrate and stretched out pleading hands to grip the hem of Wad Mohammad’s gown. “None, Wad Mohammad. These off-world Marines are more skillful at invisible movement than any man could expect. We watched the off-worlders take shelter from the sun in rocks. Alakbar, may his soul rest in heaven, was the leader of our arm. He made plans for us to attack them from their rear before the sun set, when they would be feeling most confident, most invulnerable, and therefore be the most vulnerable. They would be eating and drinking and preparing to begin their night’s trek. Alakbar, may his soul rest in heaven, alone kept watch while the remainder of us rested. At the appointed time we moved from our resting place to the rear of the off-worlders’ resting place. As the Great God is my witness, Wad Mohammad, a desert viper could not have known of our approach, so skillfully and silently did we move. On the command of Alakbar, may his soul rest in heaven, we attacked with great fury.

“The off-world Marines were not there. They had moved without us seeing them go. A shallow gully passed nearby. I looked into it and found their tracks. The off-world Marines do not yet know how to walk without leaving their marks behind. Bhufi, may his soul rest in heaven, came into the gully with me. He was reporting to Alakbar, may his soul rest in heaven, about the tracks when the off-world Marines rained balls of fire on us from their flame guns. They had hidden in other rocks almost a long rifle shot away. Bhufi, may his soul rest in heaven, jumped out of the gully, for what reason I do not know. Another fireball came from the off-worlders and sent him to attend God who is above all Gods.

“I hid away from there. The off-world Marines came to look for me, but they were unable to find the tracks I did not leave, so they left. I followed long enough to be sure where they were going, then I came back here with the greatest speed.”

Wad Mohammad, leader of the Badawi clan, stared west for a long moment. Abruptly, he stood. “You will show me where these off-worlders have gone,” he said to the survivor. “When we attack, you will have the honor of being the first man they see.”

“Thank you, Wad Mohammad,” the survivor said, leaping to his feet and bowing. “You are most gracious and kind to one such as me.”

“You!” Wad Mohammad snapped to one of his attendants. “Ride like the wind to the tent of Shabeli the Magnificent and report this to him. He has a gift he wishes to place in the path of the off-worlders.”

The Marines heard the canion-eaters before they saw them. Then sun glints reflecting from their scaly feathers became visible against the dark sky directly in the Marines’ line of march as the birdlike creatures circled lazily on a dawn thermal. The vultures started drifting to the ground beyond a rise. At first Bass thought of skirting the scene—anything dead in the desert was of no interest to him and his men. But they needed to put as much distance as possible between them and the Siad to their rear before the heat made them stop. One hundred fifty meters beyond the crest of the rise they passed along the edge of a shallow dip in the ground where a substratum had collapsed, making a sheer-sided hollow about twenty meters wide and little more than one deep. The carrion-eaters had landed there and were squabbling over the feast that drew their attention; the Marines slowly came to a halt as soon as they saw what it was.

Schultz was the first to react to the sight—he spun toward it and flamed a half dozen of the vultures before the rest could scatter, screaming, into the air.

A human body stood grotesquely askew, impaled on a stake, the sharpened point of which jutted out just behind his right shoulder. Bass gave an abrupt hand signal and his men took up defensive positions around the rim of the shallow hollow. Schultz and Claypoole raced beyond the corpse to defend from that direction. Doyle stood dumbly where he was, gaping at the gruesome sight. Even as badly mangled by the torture the body had undergone, and tom by vultures’ beaks as it was, Bass immediately recognized McNeal.

Bass stood still, transfixed by the horror confronting him. He had to will himself to step closer for a better look. He had to fight down his own gorge at the sight before him. He had never seen anything to match the mutilations the Siad had performed on what was once one of his men. Then a piece of paper caught his eye and he leaned closer.

From behind, someone vomited and another man cursed. Dean stumbled down the slope and stood beside his platoon sergeant.

“Get back up there, Dean,” Bass muttered, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. “Nothing you can do down here.”

“But—”

Bass whirled on Dean. “I said get back into position, Marine!”

Dean stood rooted to the spot. Then the full realization of what the Siad had done to his friend dawned upon him.

“Fred . . . Fred . . .” Dean gasped, and then he began to cry helplessly. “Shut up and listen to me!” Bass commanded. He shook Dean several times. The crying stopped. “McNeal was dead before they did that to him. There’s no blood, the wounds are all dry. They put him here as a message to us.”

Seizing Dean by his equipment harness, Bass slammed the young man’s blaster into his hands and shoved him back up the side of the hollow. He watched until Dean assumed a position, facing outward on the lip. Satisfied that Dean had himself under control, Bass turned back to the body and reached for the piece of paper that had caught his eye.

It was a note. The writing was gracefully curved and the letters were more horizontal than vertical, but it was recognizably English. It read:

Marines of the Confederation, trespassing on my land:

    Your fame precedes you. I look forward with great anticipation to our meeting. Which will happen soon now that you are in my tent. Then you will become mine, and your fame will pass on to my possession.

Shabeli the Magnificent

“. . . now that you are in my tent,” Bass read again, and swore. McNeal’s body wasn’t put here as a message—it was here as the bait in a trap.

Cursing himself for falling for it, Bass yelled, “On your feet, we’re moving out.” It might be too much to hope for, but since the Siad hadn’t attacked, maybe they hadn’t arrived yet, at least no more than came to plant McNeal’s body and leave the note. Maybe they could reach a more defensible position before the Siad were ready.

“Claypoole, Dean,” Bass continued with his orders, “you’re carrying this body. Marines don’t leave their dead behind.” Dean and Claypoole jumped up and ran to him. Before they reached him, he turned to McNeal’s body and wrapped his arms around it as tightly as he could. Jerking from side to side, he loosened the impaling stake and yanked it out of the ground with the corpse still on it. As rapidly as he could, he laid out his ground cover and rolled the body into it.

“Claypoole, give me some of your line,” he snapped. He took the offered spool of monofilament and used a length of it to tie the ground cover securely in place. Stone-faced, he ordered, “Use the pole to carry him.”

Claypoole grimaced but reached for one end of the pole.

Dean flinched and looked as though he was about to cry.

“It’s the best way to carry him,” Bass snarled. “It’ll be easier on you if he’s not hanging between you like a sack of loose corn.” His voice softened. “He’s dead. It won’t hurt him. If he knew, this is the way he’d want you to carry him.”

Dean nodded and brushed the back of his hand at his eyes. “We’ll take care of you, Fred,’’ he croaked. Then he squatted and grabbed the end of the pole opposite Claypoole. “On three,” he said in a clear but still weak voice. “One,” his voice was stronger, “two,” stronger yet, “three!” He sounded now as if no Siad had better show his face to PFC Joseph F. Dean, not today, not tomorrow, not ever.

Bass looked at Schultz, stuck his right hand up, twirled it in a quick circle, then thrust it forward to the west—move out. Schultz moved out. Bass sprinted to catch up; he wanted to take bearings and give Schultz a spot on the horizon to aim for. Just as he reached the pointman and was checking his GPL, a gunshot rang out and rock splintered in front of him. He heard the whine of the bullet as it ricocheted away.

“BACK!” Bass bellowed as he spun toward the hollow where they found McNeal’s body.

Neru and Clarke hadn’t gotten away from the hollow before the shot rang out and were still in it. Dean and Claypoole were already disappearing over its rim with their burden. Dornhofer was calmly assigning positions and fields of fire. Schultz raced Bass for safety. Even Doyle was scrambling to get under cover and ready his weapon.

“Did anybody see where that came from?’ Bass called out as he dropped down with only the upper half of his head showing above the lip of the hollow.

Schultz was the only one who answered. “Somewhere to the right.” Bass already knew that much.

He was looking that way. The terrain appeared flat to the north, but he was looking at it from ground level and couldn’t see if there were indentations or gullies, though he knew there must be. There were no major outcroppings of rocks within rifle range where the shooter could be hiding, but boulders studded the landscape. He saw a couple dozen places where the shot could have come from.

“All right, everybody, look sharp. Whoever’s out there will get around to showing himself. Dornhofer, make sure we’ve got all directions covered, they could be anywhere.” And were probably everywhere. That shot had just been intended to make them stay in place, he was sure of that. He was equally sure there was more than just one sniper watching them. How many were there, and how long would they have to wait for something to happen?

Long enough to begin to sap their strength. There was no shade in the shallow hollow. The sun beat down on them hard, harder, hardest as it climbed the sky. They had walked all night, since just before the previous sunset. They were tired. Bass blinked sweat out of his eyes. If the Siad wanted to, they could keep them pinned here until they ran out of water and died from dehydration. Bastards. He didn’t think the Siad would wait that long; they had too high an opinion of themselves as fighters. Maybe they’d be pinned down here all day with nothing more than an occasional shot aimed at them. If so, maybe they could slip away after nightfall. He looked up at the sky. The sun wasn’t far above the morning horizon. No, he didn’t think the Siad would wait long enough to give them a chance to slip away under cover of night.

“Watch your water, people,” Bass said when he saw Clarke taking a long drink. “It’s going to have to last longer than we thought.”

Another shot rang out, from the southwest this time. They all ducked, but the bullet cracked harmlessly high overhead. Just something to let them know there was more than one man out there, Bass thought.

Several more minutes passed before another shot rang out, from the south. The Marines stayed low, watching tensely, waiting, hoping for someone to show himself and make a target for them to shoot back at. But the Siad didn’t show themselves, and ten more minutes went by before another bullet flew toward them—from the southeast.

“Wait a minute,” Claypoole shouted. “Northwest, southwest, south, southeast. There’s only one man out there. He’s circling around and firing from different places, trying to make us think we’re surrounded.”

No sooner had he spoken than a shot from the northeast ricocheted off the rock and sent stone splinters into Doyle’s face.

“I thought of that,” Bass replied to Claypoole. “But he couldn’t have gone that far around us since the last shot.”

“Right,” Claypoole said. He covered his embarrassment by scuttling to Doyle’s side to see how badly he was hit. The company clerk waved him away; the only injury he’d suffered from the rock splinters were a few scratches.

Bass rolled over and looked at his men. They all looked more tired than he was. He had to do something about this or they might be too tired to fight well when the time came. “Dornhofer, Schultz, Claypoole, Clarke, go to sleep. Neru, watch the south. Dean, east, Doyle, north. West is mine. We’ll change watches in an hour.”

Dornhofer and Schultz glanced at him, then pillowed their heads on their folded arms and closed their eyes, but Clarke gaped at him. “Go to sleep?” he croaked. “How are we supposed to sleep? People are shooting at us!”