Battlefield Earth Part 70

Jonnie slung the blast rifle over his shoulder and hobbled across the compound perimeter, his cane not sinking so deep on this more traveled ground. He could hear pumps going further south. That would be where the mine workings were. He saw that a branch of the power cables they had used to trace this place turned off halfway up the road to the field. He followed it.

A squat hut made of stone sat there in the trees, festooned with insulators and surrounded by pipes. He recognized it as a fuel and ammunition manufacturing unit. Ha! They had one at this branch mine; probably to utilize all the excess power available from the hydroelectric plant.

The ground around it was roughed up with recent foot and flatbed traffic. The door was ajar. He gave it a push with his cane.

What a jumble! Fuel and ammunition canisters were usually stacked neatly on racks in these places. Side bins usually contained the various minerals used in concocting the contents of the canisters. A recent flurry of activity had left minerals spilled on the floor, and damaged unusable canisters underfoot. This place had been very busy very recently. He knew it took a bit of time to stir up and charge the brews that became fuel and ammunition and seal them into canisters. Had they worked here flat-out for days? A week?

He made his way over to the exit road that must go to the main minesite, using a short cut between the two roads. He looked at the brush on both sides of the exit road. Ordinarily his educated eye would have been able to track this easily, but the pouring rain made it more difficult.

He bent, examining some twigs broken from the underbrush that bordered the road. Some breaks, the ones that pointed toward the compound, must be several days old. Others, very fresh, still leaking sap, were broken in the direction of the main minesite up near a lake that old man-maps said had been called Lake Victoria.

A convoy had come in here many days- weeks?- ago and had gone out hours ago. A big convoy!

He glanced up the exit road, half-expecting to see trucks or tanks coming down it, back to the compound.

Their tactical situation was not ideal.

They had a small force of Brigantes holding out in the woods back of them. Somewhere, near or far, there must be the better part of a thousand Brigantes. And up this road- he looked at the traces of the ground drives-there were a very large number of Psychlo vehicles. Ore flatbeds? Tanks?

He heard their planes now. That sound wouldn't matter after all the uproar of this recent skirmish. And any convoy on that road wouldn't hear anything above their own motor drives. The vast canopy of treetops that made this place a twilight not only prevented anyone from looking down at the exit road and seeing anything on it, but also prevented anyone on it from seeing up.

A poor tactical situation. They could not fight a convoy, probably escorted with tanks, in this water-saturated, hemmed-in forest. Their planes were of no use to them.

He made his way over to the landing field. Sky! Not much sky but enough to get ore freighters up and down through. Leaking sky, but sky! He hadn't seen any sky in three days.

The soldiers were in the trees, covering the field. The mine radio bleeper was set in a fifteen-inch diameter vine that coiled like a huge snake up a tall tree. Maybe this field had once been bigger, but the jungle and the trees had encroached deeply.

The big marine attack battle plane wound down from directly overhead, letting the smaller battle plane cover it from above as was proper. Then the plane mushroomed a puddle of field water into a geyser and came to a halt. It was Dunneldeen. He swung the door open and sat there grinning, glad to see Jonnie.

Robert the Fox came rushing up. The side door of the big plane swung open and the officer of the remaining part of their force looked questioningly. Robert waved to him to sit tight, no emergency, and got into the smaller battle plane with Jonnie and Dunneldeen.

Jonnie was rapidly filling Dunneldeen in on the events. "There's a convoy on that road headed for the main minesite," concluded Jonnie. "I think they came down here for fuel and ammunition and then went back."

"Ah," said Dunneldeen. "That explains it."

Typical Dunneldeen, he had not been sitting quietly waiting for their call. He could get that, he said, back at the dam or way upstairs. So he'd left the big attack plane at the dam and on radio standby so they could recall him, and he'd been keeping the main minesite, up at what they used to call "Lake Albert," under surveillance by going way up and following normal traffic routes. His instruments and viewscreens could penetrate rain and cloud- even though they couldn't see a thing through the canopy of trees.

The main minesite, he recalled, had been knocked out on Day 92 by a pilot...MacArdle? Yes, MacArdle. And he'd had a bit of trouble. The Psychlos had attempted to loft two battle planes and MacArdle had nailed them right at the hangar launch door, blocking it. He'd blown their power lines to bits and knocked out huge breathe-gas and fuel and ammunition dumps. The Psychlos had gotten two batteries of antiaircraft into operation and he'd had to knock those out. This was the fight where the copilot had been wounded, if Jonnie and Sir Robert recalled. A very fighting minesite!

Anyway, Dunneldeen went on, on his overflights from one hundred thousand feet up during the last three days he hadn't found any current movement in the place but- he showed them the pictures he'd gotten from his screens- those apes had cleared away the hangar door- that's it there- and look over here, see? Those shadows under the trees at the edge of their field...no, over there. Ten battle planes on standby!

"n.o.body ever came back to mop up that minesite," he concluded, "and those gorillas have been busy!"

Jonnie looked at the several pictures. One had been taken with a lower sun. He examined the profiles of the planes half-hidden under the trees. He looked at Dunneldeen.

"Yes," said Dunneldeen. "Just like you described the one you put on the gas drone. Mark 32 low-flying ground strafers, heavy, heavily armored. Not much range but they can carry extra fuel cartridges."

"Those Psychlos," said Jonnie, "are not setting up to defend their minesite. They are probably desperate for breathe-gas. They had their fuel blown up...see the dolly tracks in the gra.s.s in front of those Mark 32s. They were dollied there, not flown there." He pointed to the hut half-seen through the trees. "They've been over there for days manufacturing fuel and ammunition like mad. They used what fuel they could sc.r.a.pe up to get that convoy here; they grabbed all the breathe-gas, I'm sure. And they're on their way back."

"The only other big supply of breathe-gas," said Robert the Fox, "is over at the central compound in America! That's where they're headed."

"With those ten Mark 32s they could turn this whole war around the other way," said Jonnie. He opened a map, water still dripping off him and onto it, and traced out the exit road. He found it left the forest, ran across a plain and into a long ravine that was open to the sky. The road went on toward Lake Albert but there was a flat place as it left the ravine. He looked at some pictures Dunneldeen had taken.

"We've got a battle coming up," said Jonnie. He measured distances and turned to Sir Robert. "It will take them a day and a half to reach this spot; two days to the main compound since that road is awfully bad. Meanwhile we have to take care of the main force of Brigantes. Pack Colonel Ivan, four raiders, and a mortar into this place. Tell him he's got to hold that pa.s.s until relieved. And you, Dunneldeen, stand by up there to make sure that convoy doesn't get through. Remember, we're only after live Psychlos."

"We're after stopping a counterattack on the Denver area," said Sir Robert.

Thor had gone down to put in an appearance at the Mountains of the Moon as "Jonnie." He was a fair rider and would put on a bit of a show for them and say h.e.l.lo. He was scheduled to visit another tribe south of there. He was a bit far for recall and it would mess up their plans to expose where Jonnie really was.

"I'm sorry you've only got one battle plane," said Jonnie.

Dunneldeen smiled happily. "But there's only one battle, Jonnie lad."

Robert the Fox was rapping out orders, and very shortly Colonel Ivan and four soldiers struggled up through the rain carrying a bazooka and a blast mortar and other equipment. They'd forgotten about their Coordinator to translate for them and it was a very tight fit indeed to get all this into the battle plane.

Sir Robert briefed Colonel Ivan. He smiled cheerfully. Ambushes in pa.s.ses of the Hindu Kush were much more complicated. Have no fear, Marshal Jonnie and War Chief Robert. That pa.s.s would be held. Live Psychlos? Well, not quite as satisfactory, but have no fear, the valiant-red-army would perform.

The battle plane soared up, seven men and one battle plane to stop a convoy of dozens of Psychlos and battle tanks. Dunneldeen waved down at them through the rain and was gone.

Chapter 7.

True it was that the stockpiles of breathe-gas and ammunition had been stripped to the last cartridge. The gra.s.s and shrub had been crushed dead for years. A quarter of an acre had been the extent of the breath-gas dump; half an acre the extent of the fuel and ammunition dump. And it was all gone.

Angus opened the lock of the compound's main door, and the reserve troops from the attack carrier went sprinting in, covering each other.

The place was empty. It had four levels of offices, shops, and hangars. Pumps were running. Lights were all on. And it was a jumble of hasty departure.

Jonnie stood in the corridor outside the recreation area. What a dismal, dank place; mold was growing on things. Water was dripping down the walls, only kept cleared out by the pumps. What an awful place to try to live, even for a Psychlo.

He thumbed through sheaves of radio dispatch forms that had been spouting out of a printer. Even the paper was wet in this hot, humid place. They had been monitoring all bands, particularly the pilot band. It was odd to see: "Andy, can you pick up that load of pilgrims in Calcutta?" and "Please bring me another flying suit and some fuel, MacCallister." The Scot pilots largely talked Psychlo with a jumble of English. It must have looked quite mad to the company employees, huddled here in this remote jungle, not knowing what was really going on but monitoring every sc.r.a.p of it.

A Russian raced up to him holding a Psychlo breathe-mask he must have found someplace. It still had the bottle attached and was operating. Jonnie sniffed it and it burnt his nose pa.s.sages. Let's see, it took about twelve hours for one of the flasks to run out. This was still...half-full? quarter-full? He shook it to see how much of the breathe-gas in liquefied form was still there. The Psychlos had left within the last eight or nine hours.

He hobbled along the corridor, sweat streaming off him. The pumps were running air into the place but it didn't make it any cooler. The usual Psychlo stink...no, worse, for it was mixed up with mold. Bubbles of sound floating in from various parts of the interior levels where his people were still searching. There was a mine phone off its b.u.t.tons and he listened at it. Still alive. He could even hear the mine pumps running at the distant tungsten workings.

This minesite wasn't as old as most.

Probably been moved here from elsewhere in the forest when they found another tungsten deposit. They were mad for tungsten. The viewscreens in the mine manager's office were on. Jonnie looked at the big electric roasting ovens at the mine. They conveyed and roasted ore there. Steam was coming off coils. They must have considered this upset on the planet temporary for they'd gone on mining.

He went down the stairs that led to the hangar. The usual Psychlo steps, twice the height of human steps, hard to negotiate with this leg. Well, he was getting better. He'd sure been able to use a blast rifle today. No speed in his arm. But it was improving.

The hangar was in the same disarray as the other parts of the interior. It still held vehicles.

Angus was poking around in the vast, overlit interior. He had a big crayon in his hand and was putting an "X" on vehicles he felt couldn't be readily made operational. Two small tanks. Angus had "X'd" them out. Several flying mine platforms. No "Xs," so okay. Several flatbeds, only half of them usable.

A Psychlo sign: "Ordnance" on a door. Jonnie went in. Blast mortars! Even a pile of sh.e.l.ls for them, contrary to interior-storage-of-ammunition regulations. Well!

He came out and grabbed Angus. "Get two of those big flatbed trucks, get a flying mine platform on each of them. Put a mortar and ammunition on each of the flying platforms. Pile those tarps in wads on the front of the flatbeds for armor. Put one of the rigs outside, put the other one just inside the door of the hangar." Yes, there was fuel.

He told Sir Robert to get him four men and a driver for each of the rigs. And to dispatch one of the rigs as soon as made up to tail the convoy.

"That rig?" said Sir Robert.

"They can fly the mine platform off the truck and lay a mortar barrage down. They can block the road by blasting trees across it. Get the convoy tailed, not too close, and if they turn back, block their way."

"And if it doesn't work and they get chased back here?" said Sir Robert.

"The other rig inside the hangar door can be taken out to help defend the place. Put another four men and a driver with it. I'll be taking it when we return here from a visit to the Brigantes."

"You'll be chasing the convoy too!" said Sir Robert, adding with sarcasm: "Ranked among the best-planned and most carefully drilled operations of history, this one is undoubtedly the very finest!" He went off to get it handled, muttering about a flatbed handling tanks.

A Scot came racing up. "Jonnie sir, I think you'd better come down to the third level." He looked ashen.

Jonnie limped with difficulty down the next stairway. He was not at all prepared for what they had found.

It was a big room they apparently used for shooting practice, a sort of indoor range. Some Russians were standing around something on the floor, looking at it with varied expressions of distaste and disapproval. The Scot directing him stopped, mutely pointing down.

In the middle of a veritable lake of congealed blood lay what must have been two old women. It was hard to tell from the sc.r.a.ps. But strands of gray hair, brown skin, and ripped clothing lay, with scattered bone chips in two mounds. The mangled messes and some spent blast gun cases told their story.

Several Psychlos had stood here and bit by bit, inch by inch, with hundreds of carefully non lethal shots, had carved two women apart.

What a h.e.l.lish bedlam of shots and screams and laughter this place must have been just a few hours ago!

Dr. MacKendrick, summoned by someone else, came in. He stopped, avoiding standing in the blood. "Impossible to tell from temperature. Not enough left to check. Maybe four hours from the coagulation. Women...forty, fifty years old...worn out by hard work.... They carved their limbs off inch by inch and shot by shot!" He stood up and confronted Jonnie. "Why do Psychlos do that?"

"It gives them pleasure. They think it's delicious. The pain and agony."

Jonnie looked at MacKendrick. "It's about the only time they feel joy."

The doctor's face set. "I feel much better about autopsies on Psychlos!"

A Russian had been moving something with a stick he had found.

"Hold it," said Jonnie. He stepped around the blood pool and picked the object up.

Robert the Fox had come in. He halted in shock.

The object that was being held up was a tam-o'-shanter, the bonnet of a Scot!

No body of a Scot. Just a tam-o'-shanter, fairly new. The kind the Coordinators wore.

Chapter 8.

Jonnie stood in the drenching rain and looked at the platform of the ancient, wrecked flatbed.

Here within the last two or three days or perhaps only hours ago stood three bound human beings: two old Brigante women and one young Scot, waiting for the Psychlos to come out and seize them, helpless to move or escape, probably covered from behind by poison arrows and grenades. How many Bantu and Pygmies had stood in this place the same way, captured and sold by the Brigantes?

And the Psychlos had come and taken them, bought them from the one-time mercenaries with the articles now lying there. The two old women had died in agony. The fate of the Scot was unknown.

A Russian lance had gingerly tested the flatbed and barter goods for b.o.o.by traps. If Jonnie knew Psychlos, and if they felt this trade ended future relations, it would have been rigged to explode. It wasn't. The Psychlo employees must think that when they retook the planet they'd be back.

Jonnie examined the goods. Sealed metal containers: a hundred pounds of sulfur, another hundred of niter. Under the tarpaulin lay a big coil of mine fuse. Articles that could be used, adding only charcoal, to make grenades. In a smaller wrapped pack: mine radio power cartridges. Such was the price of three human beings.

Jonnie turned his back on it and walked to where a Russian officer and men were holding the captured Brigantes. There were seventeen of them left alive. They sat with their hands gripped back of their heads, looking down at the ground, very still under the ring of a.s.sault rifle muzzles. Seven wounded Brigantes lay about, groaning and moving in the thick humus. Twelve dead Brigantes had been hauled in and lay in a heap.

One of the seventeen sensed a new presence and looked up. He was a barrel-chested brute: teeth broken long ago, face scarred and pitted, a huge jaw, short-cut hair. He was dressed in monkey skins cut in a military pattern. Two bandoliers slotted with poisoned arrows crossed his chest. His eyes looked like sc.u.mmed pools.

"Why did you fire on us?" he demanded. It came out as "W'y ja fur awn oos?" English if you could unscramble it.

"I think," said Jonnie, "it was the other way around. What were you doing here?"

"By conventions and articles of war you can only get my name-rank-and-serial-number." Mush, but understandable.

"All right," said Jonnie, leaning on his cane. "What is that you said?"

"Arf Moiphy, captunk, fit'commando, occpaychun fierces, Yarmy of Hauter Zairey. Are you the relief fierce or united-nationsh?"

Jonnie turned to David Fawkes, the Coordinator, with a raised eyebrow.

"They have a myth, a legend, that someday the international bank will send a relief force. I think the United Nations was some political organization that looked after small countries and interfered when they were attacked. It 's remarkable that they could keep a myth going that long...."

"Where is your main body?" said Jonnie.

"Doan hefta answer nuppin bot name rank-and-serial-number," said the Brigante captain.

"Well, now," said Jonnie, "if we were this relief force we'd have to know, wouldn't we?" "If yur purt of the relief fierce yu'd know where was," challenged the Brigante. "The relief fierce is alroddy dere, or gung be dere any day."

"I think we had better talk to your commander," said Jonnie.

"General Snith? He's inna main basecamp. Too far."

Jonnie shrugged and waved a hand at the Russian officer as though to go ahead. The Russians nosed up their a.s.sault rifles.