Ian Douglas - Star Corps

“Taking kind of a chance, aren’t you, Skipper?” Lambeski asked with a matter-of-fact expression. “Burning civilians like that …”

“Burning hydrogen rises,” Warhurst replied. “That’s why only thirty-some people died on the Hindenburg .”

“The what?”

“Never mind. We might have hit a few civilians with flying chunks of truck, but it happened so quickly, I doubt the newsie remotes saw what happened or could reconstruct it. And I don’t think they’ll be eager to try another mob rush, do you?”

“You got that right, sir,” Karelin said. “Look at ’em run!”

She’d stepped the magnification on her scope down to take in the entire sweep of the west bank of the Nile, from El Giza north to the University of Cairo and beyond to the district of El Duqqi. The panicked mob was dispersing back across the Gama and Giza bridges.

The mullahs might be able to assemble the mob again, but it would take time.

And maybe help would arrive by then.

Maybe.

5 JUNE 2138

Giza Complex

Kingdom of Allah, Earth

1838 hours Zulu

Like a large and exceptionally ugly beetle, all angles and planes and outstretched landing jacks, the first dropship drifted down out of the evening sky on shrieking plasma thrusters, moving toward the bare patch of desert south of the Sphinx marked by the brilliantly pulsing green landing beacon.

Unlike the suborbital TAVs that had brought in the Marines, these were true spacecraft, big UD-4 Navajo cargo landers generating a million pounds of thrust through their six Martin-Electric plasmadyne jets. Air scoops gaped now, fans howling, gulping down air as reaction mass, saving precious water for higher altitudes, where the air ran thin or trailed away into vacuum.

Sand exploded in swirling clouds from beneath the lander as it touched down, sagging slightly as its hydraulics took up the shock of landing. Belly doors gaped open, interlocking square teeth sliding apart to disgorge eight light Rattlesnake robot tanks, four Cobra medium MBTs, a pair of massive Gyrfalcon mobile artillery crawlers, two twenty-ton cargo floaters, and four armored personnel carriers. The dropship lifted again in a sandblasting whirlwind as soon as its cargo was clear. Other dropships were touching down at marked LZs elsewhere across the Giza Plateau.

Warhurst trotted up to the lead APC, which was just beginning to unbutton. The markings indicated American rapid-deployment infantry. He was surprised, having expected a joint Confederation unit coming in by TAV from the UK, not American troops. And the UD-4s meant they’d deployed from orbit, probably from the Army’s Rapid Deployment Force Orbital Station in low orbit.

A man in an Army active-camo armor cuirass and brown fatigues, with a major’s oak leaf insignia painted on his shoulder pieces and the RDF’s lightning bolt insignia on his breast, clambered down the aft ramp as a line of fully armored troops piled out of the APC and jogged out onto the sand.

“Who’s in charge here?” the major demanded.

“Captain Warhurst, 2nd Regiment, U.S. Marines.” He didn’t salute. Standing orders required a suspension of any military protocol that might allow the enemy to target officers.

“Major Rostenkowski, 5th Light Infantry.”

“Welcome to Egypt, Major.”

“Good to be here. You are relieved, Captain,” the major said. “The Army has the situation in hand.”

“About damned time, Major,” Warhurst said. He turned his head to watch the soldiers falling into line as a sergeant bawled orders at them. “What happened to the Confed relief?” The last he’d heard, his relief was supposed to be a couple of Russian platoons, some light German armor, and a detachment of Brits.

Rostenkowski grinned. “Bogged down in politics, as per SOP. Washington is getting it from all sides these days, and the Confederation isn’t sure they want to play along. The Joint Chiefs elected to send us instead. You and your boys and girls are to hustle ass back to Quantico for debrief. What’s your tacsit?”

“Give me your feed channel, sir.”

They matched ’ware frequencies, and Warhurst thought a packet of detailed tactical data to Rostenkowski’s biocybe system, providing him with detailed information on the initial assault, the counterattack, and the overall situation since.

“Nice twist, using a sniper to discourage that attack,” the major said. “Any civilian casualties?”

“We’re not sure. Our spotters saw ambulance crews picking up four people, but we don’t know if they were dead or just badly hurt when the truck exploded.”

“Well, the important thing was to keep that sort of thing out of the newsies’ eyes. Good work, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir.” He was somewhat irritated by Rostenkowski’s brusque manner. His Marines had done a hell of a job these past four days, and he was being congratulated for his public relations skills in keeping the collateral damage he’d inflicted out of the netnews downloads.

“This is an Army deployment area now, Captain. Tell your people to stand down unit by unit as we relieve them.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Oh, and you’d better get yourself presentable.”

“Sir?”

“A special TAV is being vectored in to pick you up. Should be grounded within fifteen mikes.”

Warhurst looked down at himself. He was wearing his armor, sans helmet and gauntlets, and the active camo surface was sand-pitted, gritty, and streaked with grime. His one-piece underneath was sweat-soaked and rank; he’d not had a bath in four days, and he knew his depilatory had worn off a couple of days back, leaving him with a distinctly unregulation shadow on his face.

He’d not brought much in the way of toiletries or spare uniforms … not for a deployment that was supposed to last for a day, two at the most.

“A TAV? Taking me where?”

Rostenkowski shrugged. “Back to Quantico. Don’t know why. All I know is to tell you to be ready to go … and to leave your people in charge of your number two.” Rostenkowski turned then and began shouting orders at the soldiers unloading supply crates from one of the transport floaters.

Warhurst used his internal mapping biocybes to locate his XO. He would have to let her know what was going down.

And where the hell was he going to find a clean uniform?

Esteban Residence

Guaymas, Sonora Territory

United Federal Republic, Earth

0902 hours PT

“I’m leaving, Mom. I have to.”

They strolled along the stone-strewn beach, the oily gray surf of the Sea of California lapping at their feet, the muddy breakers just ankle high. The sun blazed low above the mountains in the east, promising another sweltering day. Both John and his mother wore lightweight bodysuits against the UV and the heat, and their faces glistened with blocking oils generated by antisun nanotreatments.

“I know, Johnny. I just wish you weren’t joining the Marines, is all.”

“Why?” He tried a grin. “It’s not like we don’t have it in our blood. Garroway’s March?”

“Oh, it’s in your blood, all right. Damn it.”

“The thing is, I don’t want to leave you. Dad can be … tough to live with.”

She sighed. “Don’t I know it? But … he means well. He’s just … under a lot of stress lately, is all. …”

“Damn it, Mom, I wish you’d quit making excuses for him. He drinks too much, and when he’s drunk, he loses his temper. The cybercontrols don’t seem to be helping him much.”

“He disabled them.”

“What?”

She nodded. “About six months ago. He admitted it to me, during a fight. He said the control implant made him feel like he wasn’t himself.”