UNIVERSAL TURBULENT

XLVI - INDEPENDENT EARTH

The technician entered, started to say something, and Luton waved him off.

He waited for the numbers, not wanting to hear them, but knowing that he must. The preliminary report was even worse than he had feared. Fully fifty percent of Assault Team Victor was killed in action, wounded in action, or missing in action.

Was Sandral Usmos at fault, for withholding the resources he needed? Or was he to blame, for attempting too much? The answer seemed obvious. The burden was heavy.

* * *

Marco left the sit room the moment the mutineers cleared the coast. He summoned a Trooper II, climbed onto the cyborg's back, and strapped himself in. The helmet jack entered a panel provided for that purpose. "Take me to the landing Zone located near Boi Vawa. Condition five, assault speed".

The cyborg said, "Sir. Yes, sir", and started to jog. Marco could remember when the sideways, up and down motion had made him nauseous, but that was a long time ago, in what seemed like a different lifetime.

Sparrow swore any number of colorful oaths, commandeered a scout car, and followed behind. How many mutineers had missed the bus? One? Ten? A hundred? Whatever the number, they were out there, and Marco, with his a*s literally hanging in the breeze, made a prime target.

Boi Vawa was relatively a small community located just southwest of Bajoti. Marco was struck by the random manner in which some streets had survived untouched while others were heavily damaged. Good luck, bad luck, all mixed together.

The cyborg turned to the left, circled a wrecked hover bus, and picked his way down a fire blackened boulevard. One of the mutie fighters had crashed a half mile to the south, sliced through two rows of Palm trees, and slammed into a trash filled fountain.

Marco could see the pilot as they passed, her helmet resting against the plane's canopy, blood dripping from her mouth. He requested an aid team and gave them the location.

The colonial era buildings started to thin after that, gradually giving way to pastel monstrosities, and a row of slovenly huts.

Marco bent his knees to absorb the shock, allowed the harness to take his weight, and tallied the cost.

There were muties, dead where the airborne guns found them, lying in a ditch.

And there, in the field just beyond, a line of shell craters, ringed by smoldering grass fires, and chunks of partially cooked meat. A pair of vultures, their stomachs already full, lurched into the air.

Then came a troop transport, guns threatening the sky, flames l*****g the hood. The driver's hands were on the wheel, but his head was missing. One is his? One of theirs? Marco couldn't tell. It hardly mattered.

The radio cracked with casualty reports, requests for assistance, and electronic counter measures related static. An aid station had been established next to a protective antiaircraft battery. Prisoners of war stood with their hands on their heads while a vertical take off and landing fly form lowered itself to the ground. It blew grit into Marco's face as he freed himself from the harness and jumped to the ground.

Captain Walker appeared at his elbow. Blood oozed from the abrasion on the left side of her face. Her helmet was missing, and she looked concerned. "It's Major Daniell, sir. He took a slug through the chest".

Marco listened as the leg officer led him into the aid station. "The Major was something to see, sir. He took Delta company out of that ditch like the RMLE at Verdun! I never had much respect for him. Not till today".

Stretchers lines both sides of the tent. Daniell was third back on the right side. IVs fed both arms, but he still looked pale. Marco glanced at a medic, and she shook her head. The executive officer was alive, but just barely. Marco knelt next to the officer and spoke his name. "Major Daniell?"

The legionnaire opened his eyes, struggled to focus, and coughed. Blood spilled onto his chin. The words were little more than a whisper. "Sorry, Colonel, but I don't think I can stand".

Marco felt a lump form in his throat. "At ease, Major... and congratulations! You turned the tide".

Daniell looked hopeful. "I did? Really?"

"Yes", Marco answered gently. "You won the battle".

Daniell frowned and coughed. His eyes seemed to dim, and the words were barely audible. "Don't forget Delta company, sir. They were a credit to the legion".

Marco swallowed, knew Daniell was gone, and closed his eyelids. "Yes, and so were you".

The officer stood and turned to find that a naval aviator was waiting to see him. She had green eyes and a plain, straight forward face. She held a helmet under her arm. A bloodstained battle dressing marked the place where something had torn through her flight suit as the ejection blew her free of the cockpit. Sergeant Sparrow handled the introduction. "This is Captain Salom, sir. She flew one of the Daggers, and commands Chameleon".

Sparrow felt awkward about having witnessed Daniell's death, but was glad that she had. Here was an officer who cared about the people under his command and deserved their respect. She could see it in his eyes. Gray eyes that were filled with intelligence and brightened as Sparrow spoke.

"Captain Salom! We owe you a debt of gratitude. Hell, we owe you everything! Air support made all the difference. Medic! See to the captain's arm. We'd be hamburgers if it weren't for her".

Salom shucked the top half of the flight suit and sat while the medic cut the old dressing away, squirted some cream into the cut, and applied a self sealing bandage. It seemed natural to tell Marco about the infighting among her peers, the problems with Admiral Pius, and the trouble she was in.

The legionnaire responded by laying out the strategic situation and what he saw as the almost inevitable outcome. He shrugged. "We bought some time, but that's all. The muties will either return in force or whittle us down. There's no way to stop them, not without help from the Navy, and more is everything".

Salom was about to agree when someone cleared her throat. Both officers turned to find that Captain Lucy had entered the tent. A civilian stood at her side. The man was dressed in a ball cap, plaid shirt, and khaki shorts. He could have passed for a tourist if it hadn't been for the shoulder holster and combat boots that he wore. Marco raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Lucy produced her usual s**t-eating grin. "I would like you to meet Dr. Anselm Bato, sir. He works for a company called Doug Douglas Enterprises".

"That's close", the oceanographer said agreeably, "though not entirely correct. I work for the Cynthia Harmon Center for Undersea Research, which gets the majority of it's funding from Doug Douglas Enterprises, but what the hell? We certainly listen to what they say".

"It's a pleasure to meet you", Marco said, extending his hand. "What brings you to Bajoti?"

"You did", the scientist answered simply. "I've got a nuclear submarine waiting off the coast. She's loaded with three hundred volunteers, weapons, and supplies. Where do you want them?"