“Fuck you too, Kale. No speeches. But if any two-bit dictator or terrorist with even minor space capability can bump a fair-sized rock into an Earth-intercept orbit, we’re going to have to set up some sort of regular patrol out there, just to make sure no one tries that shit! What I want to know is, if that rock is on the way, how come they didn’t scramble the Marines to go get it?”
“Would you have gone on a mission like that?” Lonnie asked.
“Hell, yeah. Wouldn’t you?”
“Hell, no. I don’t mind joining the Marines and getting shot at by unfriendly natives. But getting stuffed into a tin can and fired into space, man, a guy could get killed that way. No thanks!” Costantino stirred the bubbling, smoking mess in one of the burn bins with his shovel. “I think we’re ready for another load, here.”
“I’ll get it,” Jack said. Turning, he started down the hill toward the latrines. Lonnie followed him.
The move—all of four meters—saved their lives.
A Chinese railgun located well inside Manchuria had fired a hypervelocity fléchette cluster moments before; the depleted uranium fléchettes, traveling at nearly eight times the speed of sound, slammed into the hilltop occupied by Ol’ Buck and a Quarter with a release of kinetic energy equivalent to a kiloton pocket nuke.
Kale was sliced cleanly in two. Duberand was lucky; he only lost his leg. The thunderclap of the impact was deafening, as buildings, sandbag walls, artillery pieces, and one of the Cataphract MWPs were either shredded, flattened, or enveloped in flame. When Jack was able to raise his head again, he was fifteen meters from where he’d been, half-buried in mud and gravel. The air was choked with clouds of smoke, and the shrill screams of the wounded went on and on and on above the crackle of flames in nightmare choruses of agony and terror.
This time, no one bothered with the Maggie’s-drawers joke.
TWENTY
MONDAY, 8 SEPTEMBER 2042
HQ, Marine Firebase 125
Near Kirovsky
Russian Far Eastern Maritime
Territory
1540 hours local time
Jack stood at rigid attention in front of Captain Thomas Rollins, his company commander, with Slider to his right. His left arm was still in a sling to immobilize the shoulder wrenched by the hyper-V attack, and he’d been on light duty for the past five days. They’d both been summoned by Gunny Blandings, whose sorrowful mien was all Jack needed to convince him that the two of them were headed for nothing less than a court-martial. “The Old Man is freaking pissed” was all Blandings would tell them.
When they knocked at his door, they were admitted with a brusque “Center yourselves on the hatch!” Inside, Rollins was seated at his desk, his PAD open and an expression on his features that managed to merge astonishment with both sadness and anger.
“Corporal Slidell, Private First Class Ramsey, reporting as ordered, sir!” Slidell rapped out. He could sound every inch the Mr. Clean Marine when he wanted to.
“Would either of you gentlemen care to explain…this?” Rollins said, turning his PAD so that they both could see the screen, with Sam enticingly displaying herself, and Jack knew that the worst had happened.
Or, more accurately, perhaps, the worst was just about to happen.
“Why, ah…sir,” Slidell said. “That’s just a little skin program that Flash here picked up Stateside. No one’s ever said anything about not being able to bring in a skin book or magazines, so what’s wrong with—”
“This,” Rollins said, shaking his head dangerously, “is considerably more than a skin mag, Corporal. I’ve had Gunny and a couple of the tech people from Battalion look at this.”
God! Jack thought, now terrified. This has gone all the way up the line to Battalion?
“They tell me,” Rollins went on, “that you’ve somehow dropped a new agent program on top of the government-issue AIDE, actually recoded the thing so it works better, smarter, and faster. And this new program, they tell me, is probably cobbled together from at least two other programs, though they can’t tell for sure. Very slick stuff, I’m told. Very professional work.”
Jack had to clamp down on himself to keep from blurting out a pleased “Thank you, sir!” He doubted very much that the Old Man had hauled him in to admire his programming prowess. He remained at attention, his eyes focused on a spot on the green-painted wall above and behind Rollins’s left shoulder.
“Slidell, according to your records, you have all of the programming skills and cybernetic savvy of wet spaghetti. But you do have a penchant for con jobs, scams, dealing, and selling just about anything you can lay your hands on. You’re the best scrounger in the company, but you’re just a little bit too greedy. My guess is that you’ve been, um, marketing Ramsey’s little toy here.” He turned his cold gaze on Jack. “As for you, Ramsey, you’re brand-new to this outfit, and I don’t know you that well. You have a good boot-camp record, though, and your quals tell me you have an unusual aptitude for programming and computers. I’m surprised as hell they didn’t put you in for a 4069 MOS and send you to nerd school.” The 4069 Military Occupation Specialty code designated a systems programmer. “I’m guessing that this young lady is your doing. Am I right?”