Heaven's Devils

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE CITY OF WHITFORD, NEAR FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

As the last moon dropped below the horizon, and day finally faded to night, stars appeared in the sky. Occasional rectangles of buttery light could be seen here and there, but most of what had once been the city of Whitford was soon engulfed by the steadily encroaching darkness and everything that went with it.

By some miracle the city’s two-story bell tower was still standing and provided an excellent vantage point from which to survey the mostly deserted ruins below. There were still some inhabitants, of course, citizens who had chosen to live in the rubble rather than follow one of the highways out into the countryside to lead a miserable life in one of the teeming refugee camps.

Such individuals were cautious, however, and had to be, since all manner of predators prowled the city’s remains. Thanks to the night vision capability built into his helmet, Raynor could see occasional rectangles of brighter green that marked internally heated structures, all of which had to be fortified.

There were individual blobs of light, too, some standing sentry duty on rooftops, while others hurried through the ruins trying to complete some errand or other before complete darkness lay claim to the land. The occasional pop, pop, pop of small arms fire could be heard as people shot feral dogs, fought off intruders, or settled scores. Whitford was a dangerous place to live—and a dangerous place to do business. “Who did you say our customer is?” Raynor asked.

Tychus spoke around the cigar that was clenched between his teeth as he continued to examine the city via his own visor. “Why clutter up that busy little head of yours with unnecessary information? Suffice it to say that he’s a friend of a friend.”

“Glad to hear it,” Raynor said lightly. “I was afraid he might be a criminal or something.”

The whole question of what to do with the loot had been discussed over beers the night before. Tychus had claimed to have a buyer lined up and was willing pay each member of the team a fee if they would help deliver the goods.

Most of the team was enthusiastic about the idea, Raynor being the exception, since the whole truck-stealing episode had continued to weigh on his conscience. “Absolutely not. I don’t want anything to do with it,” Raynor had said.

As the guys discussed it further, Raynor became irritated at the notion that Tychus would get to keep most of the money. “Why wouldn’t everybody share equally?” Raynor demanded.

“I’m the one with the contacts—so I should get a bigger share,” Tychus responded, eyeing the faces around him.

“That’s a crock,” Raynor replied heatedly .“There wouldn’t be any loot without the team!”

Tychus seemed to consider it for a moment, then leaned back, as a lazy smile appeared on his face. “You have me there, Jim … equal shares it is.”

“That’s right!” Raynor said.

And it was only then, as Tychus took a swig of beer, his smile spreading across his face, that Raynor realized he had been conned. The guy was smooth, very smooth.

“Come on,” Tychus said, pulling Raynor out of his thoughts. “It’s time to go down and collect our money. The kid will keep an eye on our neighbors. Ain’t that right, Kydd?”

Like the rest of the squad, Kydd was supposed to be thirty miles to the west, getting drunk in the town of Orley, where an officially sanctioned R&R facility had been established for that purpose. And with any luck at all they would be there later that evening, once the deal was done. Strangely, given his former station in life, the prospect of providing security for an illegal transaction didn’t bother him in the least. Perhaps that had something to do with the way he had been recruited into the Marine Corps—and the fact that he was doing something he was good at for a change. Kydd looked up from the Bosun FN92 sniper rifle and nodded. “No worries, Sarge. I have you covered.”

Raynor, who thought there was plenty to worry about, followed Tychus down a circular staircase to the chapel below. All of the windows were blacked out, and thanks to a liberated battery, lights hung here and there. The nave was barely large enough to hold the truck, which had been backed into it. An absolute necessity to prevent the vehicle from being spotted from the air.

Heavily draped double doors opened onto a courtyard and a shattered gate beyond. A luminescent Harnack was visible to the left, and Zander to the right. Both were standing adjacent to box-shaped structures that resembled tombs.

Raynor hoped the deal would go down smoothly. He wanted to score some money for his parents, but hoped he wouldn’t have to kill anyone to get it. Since they were dealing with criminals, he knew violence was a possibility, so he was prepared for the worst. Of course now, having taken part in the theft of the trucks, he was a criminal himself. A shocking notion that he was still trying to assimilate.

Raynor’s thoughts were interrupted by a burp of static and the sound of Kydd’s voice in his ear. “I have two vehicles approaching from the northeast,” the sniper said. “Both are about the right size and shape. Over.”

“Roger that,” Raynor said, knowing the rest of the team had heard as well. “You know what to do. Over.”

There was a double click by way of a response.

“Okay, everybody,” Tychus said, “it’s showtime!”

A few moments later two green blobs appeared at the gates and disgorged smaller green blobs, which entered the open courtyard. There was a pause while the various players eyed each other suspiciously, followed by another pause as the buyer’s chief of security circled the area. Then, satisfied that the courtyard was reasonably safe, he spoke into a lip mic.

That was when the buyer entered the courtyard and paused to look around. Because of the night vision technology Raynor was using, the details were hard to discern, but he had the impression of a portly middle-aged man wearing night goggles and a white suit. “What a shame,” the man said sadly. “My daughter was married here. That was a very special day. What about you, citizen Smith?” the buyer said, as he looked from Raynor to Tychus. “Do you have children?”

“Probably,” Tychus admitted. “But who can keep track? Did you bring the crystals?”

“Of course,” the buyer said airily. “You know my reputation. So let’s take a look at the components … the very latest in jammers if I’m not mistaken.”

Raynor knew that Kydd was keeping watch, but he couldn’t help but look around nervously. He still couldn’t believe he had let Tychus rope him in—again. This will be the last time, he told himself.

“Follow me,” Tychus replied, and led the man inside. If the buyer was shocked to discover that stolen electronics were being stored inside a chapel, he gave no sign of it as two of his employees jumped up onto the truck and began to inventory the cargo. All the crates had already been opened, in order to speed the process along, but it was still necessary to inspect the boxes on the bottom. So a good twenty minutes passed before the entire process was completed.

Finally, having received a positive report from his chief of security, the buyer declared himself satisfied. “It appears that everything is in order… . Here’s your payment.”

With that, the pear shaped blob waved one of his bodyguards forward. The functionary was carrying a metal case, which he presented to Tychus. The noncom opened it, inspected the crystals stored within, and passed a small, multi-spectrum analyzer over them. Then, having scanned the readout, he nodded approvingly. “They look good… . It’s been nice doing business with you. Will you need help getting the truck out of here?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” the buyer assured him. “Farewell, my friend … and stay safe. These are dangerous times.”

With that the buyer returned to his vehicle while one of his men started the truck, and drove it out through the double doors and into the courtyard beyond. Dust kicked up as it passed through the gate.

Once the buyer was gone and peace had settled over the scene, Connor Ward slid the top of a tomb out of the way and stood up. His rocket launcher was loaded and ready at his side. “Damn … That’s the last time I spend time in a tomb—until the last time I spend time in one!”

The comment might have been sufficient to elicit a chuckle from the others except that Kydd preempted the moment. “Uh oh, here comes company, Sarge! I have about fifteen heat signatures. They’re on foot and closing from the south. Over.”

Raynor swore bitterly. He’d been hoping for a clean exit.

“They were waiting until the buyer left, the bastards,” Tychus observed, as the first muffled shot was heard. “They saw our customer arrive, figured some sort of deal was in progress, and now they plan to steal the proceeds.”

Raynor knew that these people were prepared to kill his friends to get what they wanted, and he wasn’t about to let that happen. “All right, Ryk … you know what to do. Thin them down. Over.”

A shot rang out. “Hank … Max … get the combat car and drive it into the courtyard. Once you’re in position we’ll pull Kydd down out of the bell tower.”

Both men nodded and vanished into the night. The combat car was hidden inside what had once been a store located two blocks away.

“Come on,” Tychus said. “Kydd won’t be able to get ’em all. Let’s go out back and say ‘howdy.’”

Tychus, Raynor, and Ward slipped out the back of the church as Kydd fired again. “I missed that one,” the sniper said flatly. “Be careful! I think they plan to rush you. Over.”

Kydd’s prophecy came true as a small army of green blobs broke cover and were forced to weave their way between headstones as they sprinted forward. In the wake of the attack on Fort Howe, and the theft of the trucks, the team had been quick to bond. Now, faced with another common enemy, it was as though they had been fighting for years.

“I have them,” Ward rumbled, and fired a rocket. The range was so short the missile barely had time to arm itself before striking the first attacker and exploding.

Raynor’s visor automatically dampened the sudden flash of light, thereby preserving his vision. Once the explosion was over, only three blobs were visible, all running away. “Let ’em go, Ryk,” Raynor said, “and come on down. We have what we came for. Let’s get out of here.”

Kydd, whose finger had already been in the process of tightening around the two-stage trigger, let go. Then, as the targets disappeared into ruins out beyond the graveyard, a question occurred to him. The hijackers, if that’s what they were, had been running away. So why was he about to fire on them? Was it a game now? Made easy because blobs aren’t people? The answer was painfully obvious. The problem was that he didn’t feel all that guilty about it.

Kydd got up, made his way downstairs, and followed Raynor through the much-abused double doors. His buddies were waiting, the engine roared, and cool air wrapped him in a chilly embrace. The chapel, still radiating warmth collected during daylight hours, continued to glow.

FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

Tychus liked Lisa Cassidy from the moment he first saw her. It was during the morning muster, and she was already present when the rest of the platoon arrived, standing at parade rest behind Lieutenant Quigby, who always made a point out of being there first. The medic was pretty, for one thing, and judging from the way she filled out her uniform, she was shapely as well. Qualities that Tychus was always on the lookout for.

But in addition to Cassidy’s obvious physical appeal, there was her attitude, which the entire platoon got a preview of when Quigby launched into one of his rants. This particular lecture was focused on the horrors of venereal disease, the negative impact that sexual relationships could have on unit cohesion, and the need for abstinence on the part of the entire platoon. That was when Doc came to attention and delivered a one-fingered salute to the officer’s back, before returning to parade rest.

It was all that Raynor, Harnack, and the rest of them could do to keep from breaking out into laughter as Quigby finished his sermon and turned to introduce the medic. “Petty Officer Cassidy will monitor each one of you for symptoms,” the officer said sternly, “and report them to me. I should add that she’s part of an experiment to see if medics should be added to the table of organization for standard infantry units, and we’re lucky to have her.”

Not too surprisingly, Cassidy—upon whom Tychus had bestowed the nickname “Doc”—was invited to join Tychus, Raynor, and the rest of them as they left Fort Howe that evening. By the time they returned to base, Tychus had a possessive arm draped across the medic’s shoulders, and, judging from her expression, she was happy with the arrangement. A fact that was something of a disappointment to Harnack, who would otherwise have taken a run at her. The whole thing was smoothly done, and when Doc made her first report to Vanderspool, he smiled.

More than two weeks had passed since the sale in Whitford. Long, hard weeks for everyone, including Lieutenant Quigby, Hiram Feek, and, to a lesser extent, Tychus, all of whom served as instructors. But once the steadily growing platoon mastered the CMC-225s, and graduated to the new CMC-230 series suits, Tychus went from instructor to student overnight. Because the Thunderstrike armor required a whole new set of skills—as crash after painful crash proved. It took both experience and good judgment to decide exactly how much power to apply during liftoff, maintain what Feek called “a heads-up posture” during transit, and to land without “making an ungodly mess” as Quigby referred to “non-compliant landings.”

And Quigby was a stickler. Everyone suffered under his arrogant tutelage, but no one more than Doc Cassidy. The reason for that wasn’t entirely clear, but probably had something to do with her lack of respect for him, which she signaled in subtle and not so subtle ways. Like forgetting to salute, call him “sir,” or comply with regulations that she considered to be stupid.

As a result Quigby rode her constantly, always looking for fault, and always finding it. That made Doc angry, which led to the incident in which he was forced to take a full course of inoculations all over again because his medical records had been “lost.”

It had gotten so bad that Quigby tried to have Cassidy transferred out, only to have the request turned down by the company commander, who claimed that Colonel Vanderspool was “monitoring the situation.” Whatever that meant.

But now, as the officer sucked a mouthful of water through the tube in his helmet and swallowed it, he had every reason to feel proud as he made his way down the line of fully armored soldiers that comprised the mixed-forced battalion known as the 321st Colonial Rangers.

Sergeant Findlay and the first squad stood ramrod straight, their blue armor gleaming in the morning sun. Quigby had come to rely on the huge noncom, who, in spite of his criminal record, was clearly more trustworthy than the rest.

Lance Corporal Raynor was next in line, but a bit too smart for his own good and therefore presumptuous. It would be a long time before he was promoted.

Quigby was slightly disappointed to see that Doc Cassidy’s hardskin looked good. Her armor was different from all the rest; it had red crosses on both shoulders and the word medic emblazoned across her chest. Would that save her from a Kel-Morian rocket? No, probably not, but it was worth a try.

Suddenly Quigby felt slightly dizzy. Was it the Vilnorian curry he’d consumed the night before? Yes, probably. His mouth felt dry, so he drank some water, and was grateful when the vertigo disappeared.

Private Harnack’s red firebat suit was noticeably different from the blue armor the others wore, and not just because of the color. The tanks built into the hardskin gave it a bulky profile, which the enemy would soon learn to fear.

And then there was Private Ward, whose suit was equipped with two rocket launchers, one mounted on each shoulder. Both were capable of firing four fire-and-forget missiles. Just the thing for battling armored Kel-Morians, which Ward was clearly eager to do.

And so it went as Quigby eyed Zander and the rest of squad one before turning his attention to squad two. That was when the dizziness returned. He staggered and nearly lost his balance. Sergeant Stetman, who was in charge of the second squad, was there to steady him. “Are you okay, sir? Should I have Doc take a look?”

“I’m fine,” Quigby insisted impatiently, as he shook the noncom off. If there was a worse possibility than submitting himself to Cassidy’s not-so-tender ministrations, the officer couldn’t imagine what it was.

Besides, Colonel Vanderspool was in the process of reviewing the new battalion on the parade ground nearby. In fact, Quigby could hear the sound of martial music, the occasional clash of cymbals, and knew his father was among the VIPs seated near the carefully arranged buffet. And opportunities to impress General Quigby didn’t come along every day.

So Quigby fought off the vertigo and accompanying nausea long enough to complete a perfunctory inspection, checked the readout in the upper right-hand corner of his HUD, and saw that it was time to prepare for what was intended to be a very spectacular jump. The idea was to leap over the audience as the last of the battalion’s conventional troops marched past, and land facing the VIPs in perfect formation! It was the sort of thing that was bound to leave a lasting impression.

There was a problem, however, a very urgent problem, which Quigby was powerless to solve. Suddenly he needed to go to the bathroom! And unlike some combat suits that were equipped to recycle waste, the prototype was not. Sergeant Findlay could lead the troops, of course, but that would mean missing a rare opportunity to impress his father, so Quigby chose to gamble instead.

Thanks to the fact that the ceremonial jump had been practiced at least fifty times, the orders came naturally, as Quigby instructed the platoon to stand by, and watched the last few seconds tick away. Then, as he said, “Jump!” the entire platoon took to the air.

There wasn’t much to do on the way up, as thirty-six sets of armor soared over the line of trees that bordered the parade ground and quickly reached apogee. At that point it was necessary to cut power for a second and fire steering jets as gravity pulled the hardskins down. The problem was that Quigby had lost control of his bowels by then, along with the CMC-230-XE itself.

The result was an amazing and almost perfectly synchronized THUMP as thirty-five sets of boots hit the ground at once, each gleaming soldier standing at attention. All except for Quigby, that is, who landed on his back in the middle of the buffet table, thereby destroying it and showering all of the VIPs with flying food!

People began to scream.

That was bad enough, but the moment was made immeasurably worse when the suit’s onboard computer decided that Quigby was in need of immediate medical attention and blew itself open so that medical personnel could access his body. That left a mostly naked Quigby lying spread-eagled on top of the wreckage with a dazed expression on his face, and semi-liquid feces all over his light-colored pants. General Quigby was not amused. Nor was Colonel Vanderspool.

Without opening his visor, Tychus communicated with his squad over the comm. “Doc? What the hell happened? What’s wrong with Quigby? Over.”

There was a long moment of silence—followed by Cassidy’s voice. “It’s really hard to say, Sarge, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was something in the water. Over.”

That was followed by an explosion of laughter, the sound of an approaching siren, and an order from the battalion’s furious executive officer. The review was over.