Starcraft II_ Heaven's Devils Part 6

While the beret-wearing general was nowhere to be seen, one of the sentries would serve as a good stand-in, and there was plenty to do. The first step was to chamber a round and make sure the safety was on.

Then it was time to use the rifle's built-in range finder to see how far away the target was. Kydd eyed the information available on the heads-up display (HUD) projected onto the inside surface of his visor and saw that the sentry was 996 yards away. It was a long shot but well within the Bosun's reach.

With that information in hand, it was time to check for data related to the temperature, humidity, alt.i.tude, and barometric pressure. All of which would have an effect on how the .50 caliber slug was going to fly through the air.

Having absorbed the information and processed it, the computer built into Kydd's helmet produced a drop chart complete with a recommended windage and elevation. And as the conditions around him continued to change, Kydd knew the doc.u.ment would update itself on a continuous basis.

He was about to move to the next step, and actually set the windage and elevation, when a tent flap opened and a rectangle of light appeared. It flickered as a succession of soldiers stepped outside. Kydd could see them talking to one another.

That was when a very real combat car arrived and stopped about twenty feet away from the tent. Wait a minute ... was the general about to get out of the vehicle? No, the car was a distraction and Kydd forced himself to ignore it. Beret, Beret, he thought to himself, he thought to himself, I have to find the man with the beret. I have to find the man with the beret.

But as the telescopic sight swung left to right, Kydd realized that none none of the men in front of him was wearing a beret. Maybe the general was still inside the tent. Maybe ... of the men in front of him was wearing a beret. Maybe the general was still inside the tent. Maybe ...

Then Kydd saw a sudden spark of light, panned to the left, and saw that one of the soldiers was lighting a pipe! Was that enough? Should he kill the man even though he wasn't wearing a beret? The instructors were throwing the problem at him on purpose. Kydd knew that, but it didn't make the decision any easier. And the longer he dithered the less time he would have to make the shot.

As if to punish Kydd for his indecision, it began to rain. And the water that fell from the sprinklers located high above was not only real but very distracting. The man with the pipe looked up, said something to the man standing next to him, and made his way over to the combat car. Kydd swore under his breath. The general was going to get in the car and leave! Having made up his mind, Kydd hurried to set both the windage and elevation as the officer stepped up into the open car and took the seat next to the driver.

At that point there was even less light, the rain was obscuring Kydd's vision, and the part of the target's body still exposed was the general's head. It was little more than a dark smudge in the quickly gathering gloom. And making the situation even worse was the fact that the combat car was about to pull away.

Kydd's thumb seemed to move of its own accord as the safety came off. It was necessary to nudge the barrel a fraction of an inch to the left in order to compensate for the steadily increasing wind that was blowing left to right. Then Kydd entered a strange alternate reality in which time seemed to slow. So that even as the car began to pull away, Kydd had enough time to compensate and squeeze the trigger.

He heard the rifle bark and felt the recoil as the projectile sped away. Then Kydd saw the target's head explode and heard Sergeant Peters whoop with joy, "You did it, Kydd! You took forever, and you let the easiest shot go, but you nailed the b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Congratulations!"

It wasn't his father's voice, or his mother's for that matter, but that was okay. Finally, after eighteen years, Kydd knew what he'd been born to do. And it felt good.

The windowless office was many levels underground. An effort had been made to personalize it with laser-inscribed plaques, framed awards, and other mementos. Private Ryk Kydd was standing at attention, staring at the wall.

Meanwhile, Major Lionel Macaby continued to review the recruit's P-1 file, which was displayed on the screen in front of him. The youngster hadn't been in the Corps long enough to pile up a lot of fitness reports, training endors.e.m.e.nts, and other bureaucratic nonsense, so there wasn't much substance.

But one entry in particular caught the major's attention. It stated that after only eight weeks of boot camp, Kydd was the best shot in the entire training battalion and had already earned the much coveted sniper's badge. An honor most aspirants achieved only after attending a special school. But, according to the boy's drill instructor, a seasoned veteran named Peters, "Private Kydd has a sharp eye, outstanding eye-hand coordination, and the X factor. After racking up some field experience, he should be considered for advanced sniper training."

Macaby knew what Peters meant. The so-called X factor was marine shorthand for a talent that only one out of a thousand good marksmen had-the ability to seemingly slow the pa.s.sage of time as they took their shots. An absolutely devastating talent that was very much in demand throughout the Marine Corps. Experts had been hired to study the phenomena, in hopes of finding a way to duplicate it, but none had been successful so far. Although one psychologist believed that Kydd could have "psionic capabilities." Whatever that meant.

The other entries of interest were all related to the same thing: repeated claims that Kydd had been drugged, abducted, and sworn into the Marine Corps under a false name. Furthermore, according to affidavits submitted by Kydd since his arrival on Turaxis II, his real real name was Ark Bennet. Which, if true, would make him a member of a very prominent family. name was Ark Bennet. Which, if true, would make him a member of a very prominent family.

Of course Kydd, like so many others, was probably just trying to get out of the Marine Corps. But what if the claim was true? And what if Kydd, a.k.a. Bennet, really was who he claimed to be? There were only a few vidsnaps of Ark Bennet in the public domain, and the ones he'd seen were of what looked like a much younger boy, with a more rounded face. There was some degree of physical resemblance, however, and Macaby was a realist. So he knew that while most of the young men and women in basic were volunteers of one kind or another, a small number, say one or two percent, were forced to join by unethical recruiters intent on hitting their increasingly high quotas. Which was okay with him so long as the practice didn't get out of hand.

But if some d.a.m.ned fool had been lazy or reckless enough to press-gang the VIP's fair-haired son, then there would be h.e.l.l to pay once the truth came out! And the repercussions would start at the top and flow downhill. So what to do?

Fortunately the answer was right there in front of him. Thanks to the accelerated training schedule, Kydd was about to graduate from boot camp. That meant he would join a line unit within a week or two. All Macaby had to do was buck the problem up the line and keep his head down, knowing it would take the chain of command weeks to respond. Because later, when the s.h.i.t hit the fan, Kydd's new new commanding officer would have to deal with the cleanup! The plan was clean, smart, and in the finest tradition of the Marine Corps. commanding officer would have to deal with the cleanup! The plan was clean, smart, and in the finest tradition of the Marine Corps.

Macaby cleared his throat portentously. "Congratulations on qualifying as a sniper, son. That's a very impressive accomplishment. As for the claims regarding the manner in which you were recruited, I want you to know that I take them very seriously. That's why I plan to forward your package to the Bureau of Personnel-along with a request for a division-level review. In the meantime you have an excellent record. Don't mess it up. Do you have any questions?"

Macaby saw a look of satisfaction flicker across Kydd's face and disappear. "Sir, no sir."

Macaby nodded. "Dismissed."

Kydd's uniform was smooth, creased, and spotlessly clean as he completed a textbook-perfect about-face and marched out of the office.

It would be a real shame, Macaby thought to himself, Macaby thought to himself, to lose such a promising recruit. to lose such a promising recruit.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

"Although losses have been substantial in the most recent skirmishes with the Kel-Morian Combine, Confederate sources report that troop morale is at an all-time high. a.n.a.lysts credit this to increased military discipline throughout the unified terran forces, including new changes that have been described as 'strict, thorough, and rigorous.'"

Max Speer, Evening Report Evening Report for UNN August 2488 for UNN August 2488 MILITARY CORRECTIONAL FACILITY-R-156, ON THE PLANET RAYDIN III.

The day began as it always did with the harsh sound of the Klaxon that signaled when to get up, when to eat, and when to do everything else of any importance. That was followed by the sound of Sergeant Bellamy's belligerent voice as he entered Barracks #3. "Hit the floor! This ain't no flickin' resort. That includes you, Sergeant Sergeant Findlay ..." he mocked. "Get your a.s.s in gear." Findlay ..." he mocked. "Get your a.s.s in gear."

Yeah, rub it in, you waste of life. The day you actually see combat is the day you can s.h.i.t on my parade.

Bellamy made it a point to broadcast daily that Tychus wasn't a sergeant anymore. He'd been demoted to private the day he had appeared at the summary court-martial, and been sentenced to three months' hard labor.

Tychus's feet were sticking out over the end of the steel-frame bed, and he was in the process of pulling them in when the swagger stick struck. The blow hurt. Tychus swore and Bellamy grinned. "How 'bout it? Have you had enough? Is today the day? You can take me... . So have at it."

Bellamy was a small man, commonly referred to as "the runt" behind his back, and eternally on the lookout for opportunities to impose his will on the larger prisoners, Tychus being his favorite target. He was dressed in a parade groundperfect uniform, his nose plugs were dangling on the front of his chest, and his right hand rested on the swagger stick that was clenched under his arm.

Back during the Roman Empire on Old Earth, swagger sticks had been functional implements that were used to direct military maneuvers or to administer physical punishments, but they had long since become symbolic in nature. Some officers and noncoms continued to carry them, especially those who were insecure, and Bellamy fit the pattern. His was a handmade affair carved out of highly polished wood with silver caps at both ends. Bellamy stuck his jaw out as if inviting Tychus to take a swing at it. An offense that could double the prisoner's sentence.

Tychus was on his feet by that time. He knew that Bellamy's comments were intended to provoke a violent reaction so he would receive an even harsher sentence. But more than that, Bellamy was trying to intimidate the other prisoners by demonstrating his mastery of a much larger man. "Thanks for the invite," Tychus rumbled, "but I think I'll pa.s.s." You rat-faced sonofab.i.t.c.h. You rat-faced sonofab.i.t.c.h.

Bellamy grinned. "Life sucks, doesn't it, Findlay? You're d.a.m.ned if you do-and d.a.m.ned if you don't. But one thing's for sure ... if you aren't dressed and present for muster in ten minutes, you'll be hauling the cart today ... and all by yourself."

Tychus sighed. It was all part of the game. A game Tychus himself had found great pleasure in playing-on the other side of the field, of course. He knew the key was to stay cool, and never react. I'd like to see you haul that cart, you twitchy little rodent, I'd like to see you haul that cart, you twitchy little rodent, Tychus thought, but didn't bat an eye as Bellamy studied him, frowning. Tychus thought, but didn't bat an eye as Bellamy studied him, frowning.

While Bellamy had been messing with him, the other prisoners had been busy hitting the sonic showers. Now it was impossible for him to shave, shower, and be ready for inspection in ten minutes. So he took the only course open to him. "That sounds good, Sergeant ... I could use a good workout."

None of the prisoners who were in earshot were foolish enough to laugh, but there were plenty of grins, as they hurried to get ready.

Tychus was two minutes late when he left the barracks, accepted a nose-hose and an air bottle from a private and put the rig on. Bellamy was waiting, and wasted little time announcing that because of his late arrival, Tychus would have to haul the cart all by himself. But since most of the prisoners already knew about the punishment, the gasps of astonishment the noncom had been hoping for weren't forthcoming.

Once the roll had been called and the inspection was over, the prisoners were marched across what had originally been a parking lot before the Confederacy had acquired the rock quarry from its owners for use as Military Correctional Facility-R-156. There were twenty-three prisoners representing the marines, rangers, and the fleet.

The low, one-story kitchen and attached mess hall had originally been built for use by the quarry's employees, who presumably enjoyed better food than the c.r.a.p the prisoners ate every day. On that particular morning the entree was generally referred to as SS. That stood for "squib special," which consisted of dried meat drenched in a watery gravy, served on a piece of soggy toast.

It was disgusting, but given the lack of other options, plus the heavy labor that was expected of them, the prisoners had no choice but to choke the salty mess down and chase it with ma.s.sive quant.i.ties of water. And that, according to a medic who had been sent to R-156 for going AWOL, was a deliberate strategy to prevent hyperthermia.

A lot of fuel was required to power his big body, so Tychus ate his share and accepted donations from others. He had just gobbled his last bite when the Klaxon sounded and it was time to follow the other prisoners outside, where Bellamy ordered them to form a column of twos and led them up a switchbacking road.

The noncom was jogging, so the prisoners were forced to do likewise, and to Bellamy's credit he was in good shape. So much so that he ran backward part of the way, swagger stick clamped under his arm, yelling cadence as he did so.

Five minutes later they arrived on a level area where two of the trucks used to haul rocks down to the flatlands were parked. The quarry was located at the end of a narrow canyon with steep slopes on three sides. The process of mining the rock was primitive, to say the least-Tychus figured the added danger was part of the punishment. Explosives were used to separate tons of rock from the mountain above. Then more more explosives were used to make the big pieces smaller before they were loaded into the cart, which was emptied into one of the waiting trucks. explosives were used to make the big pieces smaller before they were loaded into the cart, which was emptied into one of the waiting trucks.

But before the grueling process could begin, it was first necessary to fall in for another head count. And while that was taking place, Tychus knew the rest of the prisoners were looking at the rusty metal box that was sitting in front of them-and thinking about the man locked inside. When Sergeant Bellamy opened the box, would Sam La.s.siter be alive or dead?

La.s.siter had been sentenced to serve five days in the cargo container for spitting in Bellamy's face. Of course Bellamy had "boxed" prisoners for less serious infractions. And being boxed for more than a day or two was usually a death sentence. Especially given the cold nights and the fact that Bellamy provided the subjects of his wrath with only ninety-five percent of the supplemental oxygen they needed to stay alive. But La.s.siter had already been locked away for three days, and some of the prisoners thought he might even make it to four. Tychus wondered when it would be his turn; Bellamy had threatened him on plenty of occasions, and it was only a matter of time before he followed through.

The steel container was eight feet high, four feet wide, and eight feet long. It was furnished with a single blanket, a pail to c.r.a.p in, and a plastic jug full of water. Food was delivered twice a day via a narrow slot. As Bellamy unlocked the door, Tychus knew what the noncom wanted wanted to see, which was a body lying on the floor. Because if La.s.siter died inside the box, it would prove that prisoners couldn't beat the system to see, which was a body lying on the floor. Because if La.s.siter died inside the box, it would prove that prisoners couldn't beat the system or or Bellamy, a.s.suming there was a difference. Bellamy, a.s.suming there was a difference.

Rusty metal squealed in protest as Bellamy stood to one side and pulled the door open. That was when the prisoners saw La.s.siter. He was not only alive, but crouched over a pail, with his pants down around his ankles. "What's wrong with you perverts?" he croaked. "Give a guy some privacy."

All fear of Bellamy was momentarily forgotten as the prisoners broke into laughter and the noncom slammed the door and locked it. Then, having turned his back to the box, Bellamy glared at the now silent prisoners. "Okay, girls, the fun is over. There's a pile of rocks waiting for you-"

That was when La.s.siter shoved his hand out through the food slot, got a grip on Bellamy's belt, and jerked the sergeant up against the door. The prisoner stabbed the noncom through the slot with his breakfast fork. He was still at it, plunging the tines in again and again, as Bellamy yelped yelped, and the guards broke the sergeant free.

"You'll pay for this!" Bellamy raged, as a corporal kneeled down beside him, cut his shirt away, and slapped a plastiscab over the b.l.o.o.d.y puncture wounds.

Judging from the amount of blood, Tychus figured it would take more than a bandage to close up Bellamy's wounds. He smiled and silently thanked La.s.siter for brightening his day.

"I wonder where they're taking him," Tychus inquired of no one in particular.

"I hear they have a special place for guys like La.s.siter," the man standing next to Tychus said. "A place where they can get inside your head and screw around with it."

"I don't know what they're gonna find in there," Tychus replied unsympathetically. "But they got their work cut out for 'em."

The prisoners watched calmly as armed guards wrestled La.s.siter to the ground. He was yelling unintelligibly, growling, and snapping his teeth as they shackled his wrists. Once he was restrained, they took him by the elbows and led him down the road.

La.s.siter jerked his arms away and proceeded to walk under his own power. He had a thatch of unruly hair, many days' worth of stubble on his face, and wore the filthy remnants of a uniform. But in spite of all that, there was something regal about his bearing. You are a truly magnificent sonofab.i.t.c.h, You are a truly magnificent sonofab.i.t.c.h, Tychus thought. Tychus thought.

Next came Bellamy, who limped along with the help of a guard until a groundcar swung by to pick him up. Tychus lifted his face toward the bright sky, closed his eyes, and smiled. He was sure that Bellamy's absence would take him off the hook where the cart was concerned.

"Fall out and take a short bio break before proceeding up the slope," Corporal Carter ordered. "Findlay, prepare to haul the cart." d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n. The peon had his orders and was determined to enforce them. The peon had his orders and was determined to enforce them.

That was when Tychus spotted Bellamy's precious swagger stick lying on the ground in front of the steel box. It was covered with a thick layer of dust, so no one had noticed it.

Tychus knelt next to the stick and pretended to tie his boot lace as he scooped it up. One end went up his pant leg, the other into the top of his boot. Then, having secured his prize, it was time to head uphill.

With the single exception of Tychus the prisoners were herded past the wooden ramp upon which the cart sat, and up to the big pile of broken rocks that awaited them. Tychus was ordered to tow the cart up the incline so the others could load it.

The air was beginning to warm up a bit by then, so Tychus stripped down to the waist before making his way over to the dented cart. Coffinlike, it sat on parallel tracks and weighed three or four hundred pounds. Normally two or even three prisoners were a.s.signed to haul the container up the five-percent grade, so Tychus knew it wouldn't be easy.

But faced with a choice to either ask for help or fail a test of strength, he was determined to succeed. So, taking hold of the thick rope used to pull the cart uphill, he pa.s.sed it over one ma.s.sive shoulder and leaned forward. With nothing else to do for the moment, guards and prisoners alike stopped to watch.

Tychus's shoulders were nearly forty inches across, and as he put his head down and began to pull, the onlookers could see cord-like muscles ripple as metal squealed and the cart's wheels began to turn. Steps had been cut into the rocky slope, and rather than think about the amount of weight he was pulling, Tychus focused on the placement of his feet instead. One foot, and then the other, each taking him closer to his goal. Finally, to the accompaniment of light applause, he made it to the top, where a lever-operated metal plate came up to block the cart's rear wheels.

Not even Corporal Carter questioned Tychus's right to take a break as chunks of granite were loaded into the metal box, the first truck was backed into place, and the brake lever was thrown. The track rattled noisily as the load sped downhill, slammed into a pair of stops, and tilted forward. The rocks made a hollow booming sound as they landed in the truck. Then, with that accomplished, it was time to repeat the whole process again. And so it went as Tychus and the cart made four additional trips up the slope before the Klaxon sounded and it was time for a box lunch that consisted of soggy sandwiches, a cup of fruit, and an energy bar that most of the prisoners saved for later.

Unfortunately, Bellamy arrived along with the meal. He was seemingly none the worse for wear in the wake of La.s.siter's attack, and immediately began to prowl the area, looking for things to complain about.

But as Tychus chewed and watched Bellamy's movements, he thought he saw a pattern. The runt wasn't just wandering around-he was looking for his stick! Because if he announced that the implement was missing, and one of the prisoners came across it, Bellamy knew it would be destroyed. Especially given how many people had been hit with it. Tychus could feel the sore spot where the d.a.m.ned thing had been rubbing his leg and couldn't resist a grin. Here at least was something to enjoy.

Exactly thirty minutes after the lunch break had begun, it was over. Then it was back to work, with Bellamy in charge this time, constantly shouting insults at Tychus.

For his part Tychus was starting to tire. What had been difficult earlier was nearly impossible now. His feet felt as though they were made of lead, time seemed to slow, and it became more difficult to breathe even though he was still receiving supplemental oxygen through the nose-hose. "What's the matter, Sergeant Sergeant?" Bellamy scoffed, from two feet away. "Is the workout you wanted too much for you? How 'bout I give the job to someone else? All you have to do is ask."

Tychus couldn't reply-there wasn't enough extra energy for that-so he kept on going as Bellamy walked along next to him. Finally he heard a clank as the metal plate came up to block the wheels, and Tychus knew that particular journey was over.

Tychus felt slightly dizzy, not to mention thirsty, but knew it was important to focus. Would Bellamy see the bait? And if he did, would it be possible to engineer the rest of the plan? The answer came quickly.

"Hey, Sarge," Carter called out. "Look down there ... between the tracks and about halfway up the slope... . Is that your swagger stick?"

Tychus followed the pointing finger and was satisfied with what he saw. Having been surrept.i.tiously washed off during the lunch break, the swagger stick was easy to see and Bellamy immediately set off to retrieve it. Tychus waited for the noncom to take half a dozen steps, saw him step between the tracks, and shouted, "No!" But the noise of the machinery operating nearby drowned him out, as he lunged forward, appearing concerned for Bellamy's safety. A carefully targeted hip b.u.mped into the prisoner in charge of the brake lever. He fell against the handle, there was a clang as the plate fell, and the cart began to roll.

Bellamy was bending over the swagger stick by then. He looked up in response to the ominous rattling from above. That was when he threw up his hands as if to stop the steel box, realized his mistake, and turned to jump clear. But there wasn't enough time. His throaty scream was cut short by a meaty thump, as metal met flesh and Bellamy was sucked under the cart and split into three chunks of b.l.o.o.d.y meat.

Everyone was in shock, including Corporal Carter, who feared that he might be blamed for the accident. Rather than go after Tychus, who had been heard shouting a warning, the noncom chose to blame the hapless brake operator for throwing the brake handle. He was sentenced to five days in the box but lasted only two. It was, as Tychus put it, "a d.a.m.ned shame."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

"Once my eye is locked tight on my quarry, the whole world just goes quiet. Almost peaceful. It's just me, my target, and my heartbeat softly measuring out the last seconds of that poor sucker's life. When the job is done and I can put the rifle away ... well, that's when I like to make the world get noisy again!"

Private Ryk Kydd, 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion, in an interview on Turaxis II July 2488 THE PLANET TURAXIS II.

A one-hundred-yard-deep free-fire zone surrounded Turaxis Prime and was intended as a last line of defense should the base be attacked by Kel-Morian ground forces. The strip of raw, vegetation-free dirt was mined, regularly swept with a variety of scans, and surrounded by weapons emplacements.

Having weathered nine long weeks of training without a pa.s.s, and with graduation ceremonies scheduled for the next day, more than a thousand recruits were streaming toward Gate Alpha. It was the closest gate to the town of Braddock.

Even though the town's civilian community might complain, the truth was that they looked forward to the river of money that was about to flow through town, even if there was some collateral damage as a result.

As Ryk Kydd pa.s.sed through Gate Alpha and followed a jubilant group of his peers toward the delights that waited beyond, he felt the same sense of excitement that he had during his last day on Tarsonis. In this case it was because, hijacked or not, he was about to become a real honest-to-G.o.d marine! And that meant doing what marines do when they go on liberty, which is raise h.e.l.l.

Not alone, because there was no fun in that, but with his buddies Raynor and Harnack. They weren't the sort of people Kydd had been exposed to on Tarsonis or been allowed to a.s.sociate with. The bond between the three of them had been forged during the third week of training, when they wound up on the same s.h.i.t detail, and Kydd had figured out a way to reprogram a maintenance robot to do the job for them.

As a child he loved taking the Bennet family's bots apart and putting them back together again-usually with half a dozen parts left over. But practice made perfect, and he was correct: a maintenance robot could could be taught to peel potatoes. be taught to peel potatoes.

So Raynor and Harnack were waiting when Kydd cleared the free-fire zone and arrived in front of a bar so famous that its name was tattooed on thousands of arms, legs, and other body parts throughout the Confederacy. Because tradition required each boot to hoist his or her first pre-graduation beer somewhere inside the sprawling maze of rooms that the owners called b.l.o.o.d.y Mary's before continuing down Shayanne Street to enjoy the pleasures beyond. All three of the recruits wore maroon kepis, gray waist-length jackets with maroon trim, and matching trousers with knife-edge creases. Their shoes were mirror-bright and relatively unworn-they had always been reserved for inspections and little else.

Kydd exchanged clumsy shoulder b.u.mps with Raynor and Harnack, who both chuckled with amus.e.m.e.nt at Kydd's continued struggle to adopt their basic social customs. For weeks, they had been tutoring him in everything from using slang words, to making a bed, to using a sonic mop, and he'd already made a great deal of progress. They were proud.

In fact, all three teenagers had changed significantly since starting boot camp. They were lean, strong, and in Kydd's case, a good deal more confident. The miniature sniper's rifle that he wore on his left breast pocket was a source of pride to both him and and his buddies. "So, how did it go?" Raynor asked. "Did Macaby believe you?" his buddies. "So, how did it go?" Raynor asked. "Did Macaby believe you?"

"He said he was going to b.u.mp my case up to division," Kydd answered. "So I ought to hear back in a week or two."

"Make that a month or two," Harnack put in cynically. "Still, that's good news, buddy, because the minute the ol' man springs you, we're gonna have one h.e.l.luva party! And you you can buy." can buy."

Kydd knew it wouldn't go down like that, and so did Raynor, but both were used to allowing Harnack to be Harnack. "Well done," Raynor said, as they turned toward b.l.o.o.d.y Mary's. "Now for that beer and some decent grub! I'm tired of the c.r.a.p they serve in the mess hall."