Caine's Mutiny, page 29
part #4 of Caine Riordan Series
Riordan swung his own rifle around to observe, watched as several discernibly human figures stood over a rapidly cooling Hkh’Rkh corpse. The barrels of the humans’ weapons were brighter than their bodies.
“They sure are taking their time checking out a deader,” Martell added.
“It’s not the body that’s making them hesitate, Private Martell. They’re trying to figure who did the killing. They know it’s not one of their people.” Which was why the grim slaughter of the Hkh’Rkh had been necessary. Riordan toggled to the secure command channel. “Bannor?”
“Wedge One Actual. Go.”
“Any further Hkh’Rkh movement?”
“Actually, they’ve all started backing up, Caine. The APCs are withdrawing without dismounting their troops.”
“So a full retreat?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. They’re leaving behind scouts, best as I can tell. I’m guessing that they’re setting up a string of observation posts while their main body pulls back to lick its wounds and debrief. This must have been a pretty confusing engagement for them.”
“True enough for everyone, tonight.” Riordan watched the bright human silhouettes resume their advance. They were traveling in an offset delta formation, the wounded following the point of that wedge by about twenty meters. “Are the two creepers we left at the clearing showing us anything?”
“A few Warriors retreating. Want them to follow?”
“No, let’s leave the creepers in place, for now. The humans you’ve been tracking: how are they doing?”
“The northern half of them seem to be converging on a low hillock. I’m guessing it’s a fall-back or waypoint.”
“Concur. Keep me posted on any changes.”
“Roger. You do likewise, Caine—and keep your head down.”
“Don’t worry about me; I’m safe and sound.”
“With all due respect: bullshit. I can hear the night sounds behind you every time you send. Which means you’re on the ground and damn near the point. Again. Bad habit. Sir.”
“Scold me later. This is not about ‘lead from the front.’ This is about making sure we get to talk to the humans here, rather than shooting them.”
“Understood. But still, keep your head down. Rulaine out.”
Matthew Fanny gestured for Riordan’s attention. “One hundred meters, sir. Time to let them know we’re here?”
“Yes, it is.”
“We’ve identified the frequencies they use, sir. You could have Dr. Sleeman search and see if—”
“Not likely they’ll be using radios right now. And comms could be faked, even voice-grade. The Hkh’Rkh could record, and now play back, a wide variety of statements.”
“So then how do we start the dance, sir?”
“We don’t, Sergeant. I do.” Riordan rose up on one elbow and spoke loudly. “I am a human and I am coming out where you can see me.”
Fanny grabbed his arm. “Damn, are you nuts? Er…sir? And how the hell will they see you in the dark?”
Riordan held up the emergency flare he had been carrying in his left hand. He shouted into the dark. “I am now lighting a flare so you can see me. I will carry it as I come forward.” He leaned toward Martell. “What reaction?”
“They’ve stopped cold, sir. Gone to ground.”
“Numbers?”
“I make out fourteen, including the wounded.”
Riordan nodded, raised his head and voice. “I will not come out until you give reply.”
There was a very long silence. Then, in English, “So, if you’re a human, why are you showing up now?”
“We just arrived. We came as soon as we learned you were here.”
“Are you at war with the snorks?”
The snorks?—oh. “Not anymore. But they still don’t like us. And there are more of the—er, ‘snorks’—approaching from the rear.”
“Are you the ones who killed their blocking force?”
“We are. We tried to contact you in your camp, the one with the two helicopters. But you ran before we could reach you.”
Another long pause. “Okay, human, so tell me: if you’re color-blind, are you more likely to be a male or a female, and what colors do you have the most trouble distinguishing?”
“Male. Red and green.”
“And tell me what that had to do with Caesar losing the battle of Waterloo.”
“It had nothing to do with it—particularly since Caesar died more than eighteen hundred years before Waterloo was fought.”
“All right, come out. Only you. No weapons. Hands where we can see them.”
Riordan popped the flare. “You can see me?”
“I can.”
Fanny almost growled. “This is insane.” Somers nodded vigorously.
Riordan ignored them. “I am standing up.” Then he turned to the Guards. “If we don’t do it this way, we’ll still be playing twenty questions when the Hkh’Rkh scouts reach us. Besides, I doubt their weapons can get through this armor insert at one hundred meters.”
“Unless they’ve adapted some Hkh’Rkh weapons for their own use,” Somers added. “In which case, ye’re pretty much a dead man. Sir.”
Riordan tried to ignore the sweat that sprang out along his brow and the cold-gravel feeling in the pit of his stomach. “I’m guessing Hkh’Rkh weapons are too heavy for humans to carry. They’re more likely to mount them on their helicopters.”
“Ye’re sure aboot that, sir?”
“Corporal Somers, I’m not sure about anything.”
The human voice from the darkness shouted. “So, are you standing up or what?”
“Here I come.” Riordan stood.
“Stay where you are,” the voice from the darkness shouted.
Fanny’s warning was an urgent hiss. “Lining you up for a head shot, now that they can see you.”
“Or just checking me out, making sure I am what I say I am before they let me approach.”
The voice from the darkness sounded a little less hostile and a lot more curious. “Advance slowly. Follow my voice.”
“It’s all right. I can see you.”
“You mean, through those goggles?”
“That’s right. You’re familiar with them?”
“Some of us are. Keep on coming. And keep your hands away from your sides.”
Riordan complied, walked for what seemed like half a minute.
“Stop,” the same voice ordered.
Riordan could now tell which of the thermal outlines the voice was coming from. He chin-toggled to LI only: the light from the flare illuminated his surroundings as if it were high noon in the desert. The speaker was in an old style of camouflage pattern that had been called “tiger stripes.” He was holding a vaguely familiar battle rifle, immediately post-World War II in design. Riordan did not dare turn his head yet, but several of the men—all men—were similarly armed, but had different uniforms and helmets. A few others were in old naval deck wear and carrying one of the iconic submachine guns of human history: the .45 caliber Thompson. They were all fitted with drum magazines. So. All of a vintage with the helicopters, more or less.
The speaker stood, and now Riordan saw the insignia of rank on his uniform: two vertical bars. Still a symbol used by the United States. “Pleased to meet you, Captain.”
The soldier’s gun came up slightly. “Who the hell are you, and how do you know my rank? Were you one of the people who dumped us in this hellhole?”
“My name is Commodore Caine Riordan, I’m a citizen of the United States of America, and I am familiar with the symbol of rank you are wearing. And I am most definitely not connected to the people who dumped you in this hellhole, which is actually called Turkh’saar. But we have to get you and the rest of your people out of here as quickly as possible.”
“Yeah, well, assuming I believe everything you’re saying, that last part is going to be difficult. We all didi—um, retreated through these woods, so we’re all split up. Hopefully, the others can make it to the rendezvous point, but that’s as much as I’m going to tell you about where—”
“Captain, I am going to hazard a few guesses. You are to rendezvous at a small hillock about six kilometers northeast of our current position. It is a waypoint or extraction site only. You will either make your way to, or anticipate rescue coming from, your main base approximately fifty-three kilometers further to the east.”
The captain’s weapon edged higher. “And how the hell do you know that?”
“Captain, we have excellent sensors on the aerial vehicles from which you ran. They allow us to see individual thermal signatures at considerable distance. While I presume that your main base must be underground or otherwise sheltered from overhead observation, there were still thermal blooms from its perimeter outposts. So before you worry too much about whether you can trust us, consider this: if we had come to harm you, wouldn’t we have just allowed the Hkh’Rkh to finish the job here and headed straight for your main base, instead?”
Although the captain and his men were less than ten meters away, this was the longest silence yet. By far.
“So, assuming we believe you, we’ve still got a problem.”
“The rest of your command. On the run from the Hkh’Rkh—um, snorks.”
“Yeah.”
“That won’t be too much of a problem. We’re tracking all your personnel and all of theirs. Currently, yours was the only group actively engaged with the enemy. Which means we can use one of our aerial vehicles to scoop up the rest of your people and use our other one—the one I have just over there—to provide cover in the event of any attempted interdiction.”
The captain stepped forward into the light of the flare. Riordan pushed the goggles up on his forehead. “That sounds like a plan,” the captain said, “but I need to ask for one more guarantee.”
“If I can make it in good faith, I will.”
“My men who—who didn’t make it.” He glanced back into the dark woods behind. “I don’t want to leave them where they fell.”
Riordan nodded. “I’d ask for the same consideration. We can’t retrieve their bodies tonight, but we’ll mark them on our scans. In my experience, the Hkh’Rkh do not deface our dead. They leave them for us to dispose of as we will. And I doubt they’re going to be here that long. Their APCs are pulling back and they’re setting up a string of observation posts well to the west of your base.”
The captain nodded. “Disengaging but not losing track of us.” He stuck out his hand; it was muscular, but somewhat wiry, as if he was slightly malnourished. “Captain Richard Hailey, United States Army—which I guess still means something. Because between what you’ve said and how we got here, I’m pretty sure we weren’t just lost in space; we’ve been lost in time.”
Riordan shook the captain’s hand. “I suspect that is correct. And I suspect I know how that happened. But there’s something I need to see before I can be sure.”
“What’s that, Commodore?”
“Your main base—which is, I suspect, where you started out on this world.”
Hailey looked at Riordan through narrowed eyes. “It was. Okay, then”—he waved to his men, who helped wounded comrades gather around—“how do we start?”
Riordan activated the multichannel option that connected him to Puller, Wedge One, and Sergeant Fanny. “We start by getting you and your men on board my ship. Karam, lift on low fans and come as close as you can. We’ve got wounded.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
BASE CAMP DANTE, BD+56 2966 TWO (“TURKH’SAAR”)
Caine Riordan checked his wristcomp, one foot tapping in his eagerness to be off Puller’s bridge. He was due to meet Rich Hailey in less than five minutes, but before he did, there was one last detail he had to double-check, because if he was right, the mission to Turkh’saar was about to evolve in a very strange, and potentially dangerous, direction. And in order to be sure how best to handle that change, he had to get a crucial piece of information from…
Peter Wu, out of breath from sprinting to his face-to-face meeting with Riordan, fetched up short against the hatchway into the CO’s stateroom. “Sir,” he panted, “I came…as fast as…I could. Wedge One just landed.”
Riordan nodded, motioned to a seat. “I know. Sorry about the rush, but the clock’s ticking and there’s something I have to know.”
Peter nodded. “Certainly, sir. Anything that I can—”
Caine leaned sharply toward Peter, interrupted in a low tone, “So what can you tell me about the Guard officer you know, Newton Baruch? Other than his being in IRIS, that is.”
Peter’s eyes opened wide. “Sir, what makes you believe that he is—?”
“Lieutenant Wu, you might recall that I am very familiar with your dossier. If you last saw Newton in 2116, that means you and he were friends when you were already up to your hips in IRIS operations for Downing and Nolan Corcoran. Newton is SAS. But he was in Singapore five years ago. When you were. The likelihood that you got so chummy with another operator in that kind of environment with whom you did not share equal clearance levels—well, that’s a long shot.” Riordan waited.
“Well…yes, sir. He is IRIS. He is also an excellent surgeon. And a very good and conscientious man.” Peter frowned. “Perhaps too conscientious.”
“How do you mean?”
“As I understand it, Newton was recruited even before I was, but was kept very much out of contact with other IRIS operatives. He is quite learned and was valued for his ability to research, observe, and submit actionable reports on evolving…situations.”
“So his work kept him isolated.”
“Yes, sir. In more ways than one.”
“You mean, in his personal life, as well?”
“Yes. He was concerned that he would never be able to fully reveal the nature of his work, and his duty, to a significant other. And he is a very serious person. Not the kind for casual dalliances.”
Riordan almost smiled. Out of the entire team, only Peter Wu would use the term “casual dalliances.” It was strangely endearing. “You respect him a great deal, don’t you?”
“Indeed I do, sir.” Wu was more earnest than Riordan had ever seen. “You can trust Newton absolutely. I would wager my life on it.” He reflected. “Actually, I already have, years ago.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me. Now, I’ve got to run. Thanks, Peter.”
* * *
Matthew Fanny stood at the edge of the lowering bay door that led down from Puller’s belly, his CoBro eight-millimeter in an assault carry. “I don’t like that you and Major Solsohn are going in there alone, sir.”
Riordan shrugged as he shed his sidearm and helmet. “No helping it, Top. If we want this to go smoothly and quickly, we meet on their terms. After all, in order to get them off this planet, they’re going to have to trust us enough to march onto the wedges, unarmed.”
“And besides,” Duncan added, “they’ve now had reports of what Puller can do. And she’s sitting right outside their complex.”
“All the more reason for them to think that you two might be awful useful as hostages, as bargaining chips.”
“Well, Matt, I made sure Rich Hailey was standing right next to me when I turned command over to Major Rulaine for the balance of our visit. Who is under strict instructions not to jeopardize this command for our welfare, for any reason. Remember: Hailey is military, too. He knows what that meant, Sergeant.” Riordan started down the ramp.
“Yeah, well—let’s hope Captain Hailey’s superiors get the message as clearly as he did.”
“Matt, I suspect that if their cadre has managed to keep this weird patchwork unit alive and functional this long on Turkh’saar, they’re professional enough to understand that threatening us would be the very worst thing they could do.” Riordan stepped off the ramp, blinked against the rays of the local primary, which was just cresting the foothills behind them. “We’ll be fine, Top.”
Fanny nodded but did not look convinced. “I hope you’re right, sir. And we’ll be right here if you need us.” He stepped back as the warning klaxon shrilled and the ramp began rising up to smooth itself into Puller’s ventral surface.
Duncan looked at Caine, looked at the massive rock overhang that sheltered a flightline of more than a dozen helicopters. Just back from its edge, small dirt-berm pillboxes had been constructed, each sprouting a mix of heavier human weapons—mostly historical .50 cal M2 machine guns—and modified Hkh’Rkh assault rifles. “Well,” he said.
“Well,” Caine echoed. “It’s showtime.”
They walked toward the bristling array of weapons and war machines.
* * *
As they reached the perimeter of the outer defenses, Rich Hailey emerged from a large shadowy gulf behind the flightline. Scans indicated it was the entrance to whatever cave network was housing the forces of which the captain was a part.
Hailey came to a halt just two meters away. “Sirs, are you able to provide the documentation my superiors have requested?”
Riordan nodded, handed over a courier pouch. “Our commissions and supporting materials.”
Hailey nodded his thanks, opened the pouch, popped open the two folders, scanned their first pages quickly. “Thank you, sirs.” He returned the documents to their folders, the folders to the pouch, sealed it, signalled three waiting guards to approach.
Perhaps because Riordan’s undergraduate degree had been in military history, and because of his work as an analyst since then, he was able to place all three with fair certainty.
The one in the lead had wide, winglike chevrons on his dark green-brown uniform, and a broad, shallow helmet: almost certainly a British infantry sergeant of the World War II era. Next to him was a short, olive-skinned man in camouflage fatigues with a deeper, bowl-like helmet: almost certainly an American of the decades following World War II. And the last was Asiatic, probably Southeast Asian, in what looked like thick black pajamas: he could have come from any one of a number postcolonial insurgent groups, but Caine was guessing Viet Cong.
Hailey nodded to the man in the British uniform. “Sergeant Seedman, please take these documents to the command group.”
