Kris Longknife: Redoubtable Page 8

  “Not so good. It’s got a lot of parking lot around it and not much cover. Damn it, woman, you’re changing the topic.”

  “I’m focusing on the topic at hand.” Kris quickly covered the distance to the six trucks full of local volunteers. “Are any of you soccer fans? Football,” she corrected. “Been to the football stadium?”

  “I have,” came from several.

  “I’ve played there twice and worked a summer for the groundskeeper,” a young woman said, dropping gracefully from her truck.

  “Jack here needs to save the people being held prisoner there before the gunmen can mow them down. You two need to talk.”

  Kris took the woman’s hand and passed her along to Jack, all the time wishing she wasn’t so beautiful, well-endowed, and athletic. Like most, her clothing was thin and worn. Ah, the things I do for humanity, Kris thought, hoping she wasn’t setting herself up for another bridesmaid’s dress.

  Jack threw Kris an angry scowl before putting his head together with the woman.

  Kris had other things on her mind. She spotted one of the fellows who sounded a bit too vengeful. “You, and the guy next to you. Come with me.”

  Kris culled an even dozen out of the volunteers and got them moving with her to the last dozen trucks.

  “Each of you, pick a truck. You’re riding shotgun for it.”

  “What’s that?” came from several of them.

  “These trucks need to connect with the Marine platoons I’m dropping on the other side of town to stop Jackie and her thugs from making a run for the hills. They may not all drop where we want them. You make sure they have a ride if they need to move. You make sure these trucks aren’t stolen out from under you.”

  Kris turned to the four Marines. “Each of you, pick three trucks. It’s your responsibility to see that they get to the other platoons. Stay on the outskirts of town. Go around trouble. You are not to look for a fight. Run if you have to, but make sure the colonel gets at least six of these trucks. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  “Check in regularly with me or the colonel. You’ve got the radio access. Good luck.”

  With an OOH-rah, the four nonplus privates went looking for their first commands, and Kris headed back to the lead truck.

  When she passed Jack, he was deep in conversation with the gal with the very short cutoffs and the near-nonexistent tank top. With a familiar and very sad sigh, Kris concentrated on the challenge at hand.

  She ordered the twelve trucks for the colonel to break off at the next cross street. Two groups went right; the other two trios went left. At the next major cross street, it was time to detach Jack. She went straight ahead, he turned left.

  “Princess Kris, this is Colonel Cortez,”

  “Yes, Colonel,” Kris answered.

  “We’re about to jump, but something interesting has developed. The spaceport is now squawking. Someone in the tower has even authorized the four of us to land.”

  “Interesting,” Kris said.

  “I thought you might find it so.”

  “Once you depart for your place of business, who will be left in the longboats?”

  “Command Master Chief L. J. Mong had originally planned on landing the Navy support teams at the Annam plantation. Given a choice, he’d prefer the airport.”

  “He might have to fight for it,” Kris pointed out.

  “From the grin on his face, I think he’s hoping for just that eventuality,” the colonel answered.

  So, it boiled down to a simple question. Had someone set a snare for a rabbit out at the airport? What would be the outcome if they found an angry bear in their bunny trap instead?

  “Tell the chief he has my permission to use his discretion. If he thinks the port can be captured and turned to good use, go for it. If a closer observation shows the port is too much to bite off, give it a pass. I’ll send an eye so he can take a good look before he leaps.”

  I’M ALREADY DOING IT, Nelly told Kris.

  “Looks like fun,” the colonel said. “You got trucks moving my way?”

  “Four sets of three by four different routes. You shouldn’t have to walk.”

  “Godspeed, Commander.”

  “And Godspeed to you, Colonel.”

  Kris turned back to concentrate on her own problem, Tranquility Road. Maybe it was about time to start messing with Jackie Jackson’s telephone.

  Jackie Jackson answered the phone on the first ring. “Yes,” she snapped.

  There was a noticeable pause before Captain Belou said, “We’ve got the airport up and working. Some of the employees were hiding out in the hangars with their families. We’ve got them working for us. I’ve made contact with the incoming shuttles. They say they’ll be glad to land here.”

  “They tell you what they’re carrying?”

  “Boxes of famine biscuits, or so they say.”

  “If they’re not carrying Marines, I’m a virgin who’s never killed before.”

  “If they’re not carrying biscuits, I and my crew will be blending back in with the locals. We can’t fight Marines.”

  “Don’t fight them. Just send them into town and call me. I’m ready for them.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have things to do. This port is in lousy shape.”

  “We’ll make it nice for you when you bring back your first load of confiscated goods.” Jackie grinned happily at the thought and hung up.

  So, where were the Marines who were supposed to be driving up from that plantation south of town? She’d offered rewards for anyone who reported them. She should be hearing something!

  Her phone rang. She answered “Yes.”

  There was a long pause. She hated calls that did that. St. Pete’s system regularly did it. Some people hinted darkly that State Security was responsible.

  Jackie was State Security and knew better. It was just an overworked phone system. Her boss had told her so.

  Kaskatos’s phone system had worked the first time, every time.

  Until today.

  Now the receiver went dead. She hung up the phone and stared at it. It rang again.

  And again it buzzed for a few seconds before clicking and going dead.

  She’d no sooner clicked it off than it rang again and repeated the whole procedure.

  Jackie was about to throw the phone against the wall when she thought better, clicked it off, and speed dialed the stadium.

  Richard quickly answered the phone. “Yes.”

  “Are you having problems with the phone?” she snapped.

  “No,” he answered. He was a simple man. Give him an order, and he did it. If he said his phone was working, it was.

  “Have you had any calls in the last few minutes?”

  “None.”

  “Call me back,” Jackie said, and hung up.

  A few seconds later, her phone rang. “Yes.”

  There was a brief pause, then Richard said, “You asked me to call.”

  “Yes. Have you seen anything of the gunmen we heard about from the south?”

  “Nothing, Your Terribleness. I have rocket launchers on the upper levels of the stadium. There are miles and miles of parking lot. If anyone tries to drive across that asphalt, we will barbecue them.”

  “I would expect nothing less from you, Richard. Hold the stadium. You may start killing the sheep as soon as you are attacked. I’ll teach them to cross me.”

  “It will be done,” he said, and hung up.

  A moment later, Jackie’s phone rang again. When it started to buzz rather than talk, she hurled it out the window.

  “Damn phones. There’s no one I really wanted to talk to.”

  11

  Jack had his computer, Sal, project a picture of the stadium for him and Tilly. He tried to concentrate on her fingers as she took him on a walk through the stadium.

  It was not easy.

  Three million years of evolution had trained the male eye to look for movement . . . and the female form. As the t
ruck bounced from pothole to pothole, it jiggled two beautiful examples of the female breast right in front of his eyes.

  Normally, Jack considered himself a very disciplined man. Today, evolution was winning hands down.

  So he kept his hands in his pockets and tried to keep his eyes on her fingers. At least his ears worked normally.

  “The field is pretty much a mess. They’ve had people living there for the last two months,” Tilly said. “At least they dug latrines down at this end. Still, a lot of people have gotten sick.”

  “What about water? Water in? Water out?” Jack asked.

  “We have to water the grass most of the summer. Not a lot of rain then. Winter, we get lots of rain. It gushes off the seats in rivers. So, yes, a lot of water comes in and a lot has to be taken out. Why?”

  “Because where the water goes out, I was hoping to take my Marines in. You know anything about the sewer system?”

  Here, the gal shrugged, and Jack got a glimpse of even more of her. Her tank top covered little of her midriff, and the cutoffs were badly frayed. Everybody was wearing clothes that had seen better days, but Tilly seemed dressed to distract males.

  Or attract them.

  Yet the woman talking to Jack was self-possessed and unassuming. The clothes did not match the person they covered . . . or hardly covered.

  One thing was sure; she had a tight hold on her rifle. And unlike most, her pocket bulged with a box of ammunition. She would not shoot herself dry in one lone magazine.

  “I don’t know anything about the underground, just that there is a lot of piping and ducts inside the stadium where no one goes. My job that summer was mowing the grass and painting the seats.

  “Here and here”—she pointed—“there’s room to march a band in from the parking lot. You should be able to drive your trucks right onto the stadium grounds.”

  “I doubt if we can do that,” Jack said, pointing to where men stood with rocket launchers high on the entrance ramps that ringed the stadium. “We wouldn’t get halfway to the stadium before they blew us away.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that,” Tilly said, and worried her full lower lip. “I never watched many war films. I didn’t like all that killing. It seemed such a waste. Now, there are a couple of guys I really want dead, and I don’t know anything about how it’s done.”

  “Movies aren’t the place you learn how to fight,” Jack said. What he really wanted to know was more about the guys she wanted dead . . . and why. Instead, he asked, “Do you know how to use that rifle?”

  “My dad used to take my brother hunting. Before they went out, he insisted my brother learn how to shoot. I went along to their target practice and beat them both.” She grinned. “Brother said I cheated. I had these two pillows to rest on.”

  She glanced down at the “pillows.” “Dad got Mom and Bro up-country before things got too bad around town. I stayed behind, trying to get a boy to go with me.”

  “What happened?” Jack knew if the boy had gone, Tilly wouldn’t be here.

  “His dad’s a road engineer. Jackie has him working for her. She’s got his wife and son at the stadium. Sometimes he gets to visit them.”

  “And you.”

  “I tried to visit his son. Two of the guards said they’d help me if I’d just wait in the locker room. I think I could have taken the two of them, but they brought some of their friends.” Her words petered out, but her grip on the rifle got real tight.

  “I managed to find a place to sight this puppy in. I only used three rounds. You get me a target. I’ll hit it. I’m good to two hundred meters.”

  Jack didn’t doubt she was.

  He concentrated the spy eye on the line of manhole covers stretching from the shipping entrance across the smaller parking lot to the road behind the stadium. He followed more sewer lids until he came to a tree-lined residential street not two blocks from the parking lot.

  “Sergeant Bruce, get ready to spin off some small scouts. I’ve got a sewer line I want mapped.”

  “Oh joy,” the sergeant replied. “When my DI said to suck it up and soldier, he warned me there’d be days like this.”

  Jack pounded on the roof of the truck cab and shouted instructions.

  Beside him, Tilly caressed her rifle like she might her firstborn.

  Colonel Cortez operated the risers on his chute. It had been a long time since he’d made a jump, and somehow it had gotten a whole lot harder to control one of these things since then. Still, he landed only twenty meters from his stick mate . . . and did so at a sedate walk.

  As he spilled his chute, he took in his situation. He was in a farmer’s field, trampling green wheat not yet ready for harvest. The field consisted of several gently rolling hills. Off to his left, a four-lane road hugged the trees, which hid a decent-size river.

  Unless he was blind, he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

  Traffic on the road at the moment was nil. A dozen Marines who had landed closer to the road spread out along the shoulder and prepared to stop anything going in either direction.

  Colonel Cortez joined the fifty or so Marines humping their gear toward the road. Word was he’d have transportation along soon.

  It was unusual, but it looked like everything was going according to plan.

  Private Lotermann hadn’t expected to have his very own command, not with just six months in the Corps, but here he was in charge of three trucks, responsible for getting them to Colonel Cortez.

  He was on his own. It was a beautiful day. This was kind of fun.

  “Turn left up here,” he told the driver.

  The local riding shotgun for him had given up his seat in the cab, preferring to ride standing up on the truck bed. Now he stooped down to the vacant window.

  “You want to turn right here,” he said.

  “The map the princess gave me said we turn left,” Private Lotermann said, turning toward the volunteer.

  And found himself facing a machine pistol with the arming bolt already pulled back and the safety off.

  “I could care less about your princess. The Dragon Woman wants us to head for Tranquility Road, so that’s where we’re going.”

  The gunman fired; the Marine private heard nothing.

  Lieutenant Commander Kris Longknife signaled the driver to turn off six blocks short of Tranquility Road. Three hundred meters up the quiet, tree-lined street, she had him stop.

  The other two trucks full of Marines spaced themselves at hundred-meter intervals as they halted. Quickly, Marines dismounted and began filtering through the yards, covering for each other as they bounded forward.

  “Penny, go with them. Get some scouts out,” Kris ordered, then turned to motion the trucks full of volunteers to come up to where she stood.

  “Good luck with that bunch,” Penny said, looking around. She spotted Lieutenant Stubben and jogged to join him.

  It took a lot of waving to get the trucks to join her. By the time they reached her, some of the volunteers were already walking along beside them. A few had tried to follow the Marines and seemed very unhappy when Marines paused in their advance to quietly send them back.

  “What’s going on?” “Aren’t we going to fight?” “I came here for a fight, and I’ll fight those hard hats if they get in my way again.”

  Kris would dearly have loved to turn this bunch over to a good DI and wash her hands of them. She doubted a harangue from her on discipline would do any good.

  “Get out of the trucks. I’ve got to talk to you first,” was the best she could come up with.

  It wasn’t like these were the first irregulars she’d led into battle. She’d had some really nasty experiences with civilians who’d insisted they could stand in the line and fight.

  She’d also saved the planet of her birth with a ragtag and bobtail collection of rejects, reservists, and volunteers.

  With a sigh, Kris surveyed this bunch. Other than eagerness, they had little to recommend them.

  “Corpor
al,” she ordered under her breath, “take your fire team and spread them out in front of this bunch.”

  “Yes, Commander.” The orders were given and obeyed. “Now what, ma’am?”

  “I’m not sure,” Kris admitted, “but if something goes wrong among our so-called volunteers, I’m sure your Marines will know it before you and I do.”

  “Yes, Commander,” the corporal said, and whispered further instructions into her mike. Her troopers stayed casual . . . but kept their eyes on the volunteers.

  Kris then ordered the sniper to roam around, facing out. “Try to keep us from being disturbed.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Kris began. “First, I would like to welcome you to the first annual, and hopefully last annual spring battle royal of Kaskatos. If you’re lucky and pay attention, you might live through today.” As Kris talked, she walked up the line of armed men and women, eyeing each one carefully.

  Most of them treated their weapons like toys they’d gotten for Christmas and didn’t know what to do with. Rifles were pointed up, down, or held at the end of arms that just dangled. Pistols and machine pistols dangled the same way.

  “You are my reserve,” Kris went on. “In War College, they teach that victory usually goes to the side that is still holding on to a reserve force when the crisis of the battle arrives.”

  “And you’re gonna know when that crisis shows up,” a guy said.

  Kris didn’t like his attitude. She liked even less that he was bringing up his arm with his machine pistol at the ready. It was fully cocked, and the safety was off.

  Unfortunately for him, Kris had been waiting for something like that. She had her own automatic out and three sleepy darts sprouting from his chest before this optimistic assassin could get his own weapon up.

  He fell backward against a truck; his weapon clattered onto the pavement.

  Suddenly, the Marines were guns up.

  “Guns down, volunteers,” Kris shouted. “Lower your weapons, or I’ll drill every one of you with a sleepy dart.”

  “Why sleepy dart the traitor?” said someone with a machete, and used it to take the head off the guy Kris had darted. People jumped back, many looking quite shocked at the amount of blood that could spew from a human neck once the head was no longer attached.