CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Kilo Company moved into the swamp to the left of M Company. Company L took position to Kilo's right. Three companies abreast, they advanced deeper. The FIST's Raptors...o...b..ted a few kilometers away, ready to rain support when needed. Brigadier Sturgeon still held off on the artillery. Company L advanced in a line of platoons, the platoons in lines of squads. Second squad, third platoon, was the squad on battalion's farthest right. Lance Corporal Schultz had second squad's point. To Schultz's thinking, the extreme right front corner of the battalion advance was the most vulnerable position, the position that required the sharpest, most alert man in the battalion. He believed that he was the sharpest and most alert Marine in the entire FIST. He wanted that position. n.o.body was about to say no to Hammer Schultz when he said he wanted the most dangerous position. Before they started out, Schultz stood motionless for a long moment listening to the sounds of the swamp, then another long moment absorbing its scents. He squatted and listened and smelled. Noises and aromas are marginally different at higher and lower elevations. He wanted to get a range. Satisfied that he had a basic grasp of the sounds and smells of the swamp, enough to allow him to filter out the most mundane of them, he softly said "Ready" into his helmet comm. A moment later Corporal Kerr's voice came back to him: "Move out." Schultz stepped through the brush and across a rivulet. Thirty-fourth FIST's infantry battalion began moving deeper into the trackless waste of the Swamp of Perdition. Light filtered dimly through the thin canopy, creating dark shadows and darkening colors. The dominant tones were the deepest greens of wet foliage and the heavy browns and blacks of water-sodden dirt. Shapes, unless seen up close, were muddled and indistinct, and tended to blend together. Here and there spots of brilliant color signaled "come hither" to pollinating insectoids, or to prey. The air, when it moved, was sluggish, as though too dispirited by its surroundings to waft. The water of the numerous rivulets and streams was more sluggish, seemed too tired to do more than just lay there. It was humid, and the air felt 64 64 almost thick enough to drink. Fallen foliage slowly rotted on the ground. Mud oozed and slipped underfoot and threatened to tumble the men. Everything emitted aromas, the scents of rot and decay and excretion, a miasma that felt viscous, as though it could be seen and touched, and would cling to flesh, clothing, and equipment. The dank foliage, wet air, and thick mud sopped up sounds, muddied them. One skilled man can move wraithlike through a swamp, unseen and unheard by its denizens, even his scent lost in the general miasma. One man alone can seep through until he is close enough to an unsuspecting animal to kill it. A few skilled men, three or four or half a dozen, can creep close enough for one of them to kill their prey before it can get away. Four hundred men, no matter how stealthy each one is, cannot move undetected through a swamp. The animals heard them coming. Prey animals fled to the safety of their burrows, or to distance themselves from the threat. Predators realized something bigger and stronger and meaner was coming and got out of its way. Even the carnivorous plant life seemed to sense that it was not dinner time, and furled leaves, closed flowers, withdrew tendrils. The going for everyone was uncertain. Slip, slide, squish in mud. Tufts of turf tried to trip the unwary. Tangles of tendrils and trailing vines lay in wait to entrap careless feet. Droopy leaves, twigs, and mossy growths hung in lank sheets to block vision. Streams that moved sluggishly were everywhere, so murky with decaying and decayed matter that the sinkholes on their bottoms couldn't be seen or even felt until stepped into. Small water-dwelling parasites struggled to get through the material of the Marines'

uniforms. And there were all those d.a.m.n insectoids that hadn't yet gotten the word. Only the flying insectoids thought "banquet" and buzzed and flitted in to dine. It wasn't long before nearly every Marine in the battalion had multiple itching bites from beasties that had managed to get inside his chameleon uniform.

On the right front corner, Schultz ignored the three bites he sustained. He'd been inoculated against all known pathogens, and some itching was simply part of being in the field. His attention remained firmly fixed on his surroundings. Two men back, Corporal Kerr also ignored the itching. Miscellaneous bites were nothing to be concerned with, not unless they infected, and he'd had the same inoculations Schultz had. He was as alert as Schultz, but not all his attention was on his surroundings. As a fire team leader, he had to be fully aware of his men. Normally he would have positioned himself between them, but not this time. He knew Schultz could handle himself and not make mistakes; Corporal Doyle was another matter. Kerr knew he needed to give him close supervision. He used his infra shield more often than he usually would so he could maintain visual contact with Doyle. His eyes constantly flicked to the HUD display he had tacked in the corner of the shield so he could see where Doyle was when he wasn't using his infra. A lone flitterer wended its way under the chin of Corporal Doyle's helmet and inside the neck of his chameleon shirt to his collarbone, where it settled down to drill a well into the succulent juices of this odd flesh. The juices it siphoned up were just as odd as the flesh, much odder than the flitterer had suspected, and it promptly withdrew its proboscis. Disoriented by the alien nutrients, which were anything but nutritious for it, it wandered about aimlessly for a bit, unable to find its way back out until Doyle slapped his chest and squished it.

Several minutes afterward, between the excruciating itch on his collarbone and horrible thoughts of what that alien insectal ichor must be doing to his tender and all-too-human flesh, Doyle was half driven to distraction and felt himself headed for madness. He forgot to watch where he was stepping and slid, almost fell, when something slipped under his foot.

"Watch your step, Doyle," Kerr's soft voice came to him. "Use your light shield."

"Uh, right," Doyle replied as he regained his balance. He stopped using his infra shield and stayed with 65 65 the light-gatherer shield so he could see where he was going. He held his blaster by the forestock with his left hand while he scratched at his collarbone and scrubbed at his chest with his right; between his shirt and glove, it was an ineffectual scratching. The battalion advanced slowly. Some of the slowness was due to the difficulty of movement. Some was in order to maintain formation. The part of the Marines' minds that was aware of the slowness thought it was because of the caution the pointmen and the men on the flanks needed to maintain. The pace was less than a kilometer in a local hour. Such a pace over difficult terrain was exhausting. In the battalion's right front corner, after two hours, Corporal Kerr was running with sweat. He was tired and found his attention wandering. He focused on Doyle and forced himself back to alertness. Doyle was drenched and nearly out of it altogether. He was vaguely aware that he was losing body fluids far faster than he was taking in water. It took everything he had merely to maintain contact with Schultz and find his footing. Schultz was covered with a sheen of perspiration, but his attention and alertness hadn't varied from the sharpness he started out with.

A little more than two kilometers from their starting point, Schultz stopped and lowered himself to one knee. In waves from him, the battalion racheted to a stop.

"What do you have, Hammer?" Kerr asked. Schultz grunted. What he had was a feeling, an impression. There wasn't a single thing to which he could point and say, "Danger." Not a dimly seen form, not a print in the mud or a newly snapped twig. Not even a fleeting scent or an unexplained sound. A moment later Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Ba.s.s came forward to check out the situation.

"What?" he asked.

Schultz was silent for a few seconds as he continued to study the landscape to his front and his right, wondering how-or whether-to answer the question.

"Skinks," he finally said.

"Where?"

Invisible under his chameleons, Schultz shook his head. "Out there," he murmured.

"Did you see anything? Hear anything?" Schultz grunted a negative.

"UPUD doesn't show anything, Gunny," Lance Corporal Dupont said. Ba.s.s snarled at him. He didn't want to hear what the UPUD did or did not show. He considered what to say. All reports he'd heard or read said they were up against human rebels. There were no indications they were faced by the fierce, alien beings third platoon had encountered on Waygone. Of course, there were those unexplainable weapons. But the Skinks hadn't used anything like them. Still...

"If they aren't here, let's move out and find them," Ba.s.s finally said. There, he hadn't reprimanded Schultz for invoking a boogeyman n.o.body else believed in, nor had he even acknowledged the man's belief. In his infra, Schultz rose to his feet and moved forward. 66 66 As Ba.s.s waited for his position in the platoon column to reach him, he toggled his comm to the company command circuit and reported to Lieutenant Humphrey. Humphrey agreed that he'd done the right thing, and then made his own report to Battalion. Commander van Winkle told him to make sure everybody was alert, then reported to FIST. Brigadier Sturgeon knew about Schultz's belief that they were up against the Skinks. He was able to follow Schultz's thinking to that conclusion without having to agree with it. On the other hand, the weapon that had killed two of his Raptors and a Dragon wasn't in any human armory he'd ever heard of. So maybe they were up against aliens. Elements of his command had encountered nonhuman sentiences twice over the past couple of years, so hostile aliens were possible. And any belief that helped his Marines stay alert and alive was all right with him. When Ba.s.s talked with Schultz, he used the circuit that allowed the entire platoon to listen without anyone else being able to break in. Corporal Doyle listened closely. His fatigue vanished, his sweat dried up, his sphincters tightened, and so much adrenaline pumped into his system that a touch would have made him tw.a.n.g like a guitar string. Marines from a war centuries past might have described it as "His pucker factor pegged the meter."

Skinks? Doyle would have said the word out loud if his throat wasn't so tight it wouldn't even let a squeak through. He hadn't been on the mission to Society 437, the planet commonly called Waygone, but once the secret was out, he'd certainly heard about it. Skinks! He'd heard about them. Lots. If he were more imaginative, they would have haunted his dreams. Skinks! Such a mild name for ferocious creatures. In his imagination they were more than two and a half meters tall, weighed 250 kilos, spat fire, exhaled corrosion, ate living flesh, breathed water as well as air, and could see chameleoned Marines. He was partly right. Some of the Skinks were more than two meters tall and weighed more than two hundred kilos. They did breathe water as well as air. They didn't exhale corrosion, though-but they used weapons that shot corrosive acid. As for the rest of it? Doyle's imagination was rich enough to have brought on nightmares.

Suddenly the swamp looked different to Corporal Doyle. Suddenly every shadow held a gigantic, fire-breathing, corrosion exhaling, human-flesh-eating monster that not only could see him, but wanted to kill him. Every cry from a swamp creature was the death rattle of a Marine dying horribly from an encounter with a Skink. Every ripple on the surface of a stream became the trail of a water breather coming to roast him and dissolve his charred remains. Every movement seen in the corner of his eyes was a charging Skink bent on his oblivion. Doyle's blood pressure rose to forehead-tightening level. His throat constricted until breath couldn't get through to his lungs.

"Get a grip, Doyle," Kerr's voice came over the helmet comm. Doyle jumped, and his sphincter gave critical ground. "Ah, s.h.i.t!" he croaked through a throat that also eased.

"Smells like it," Kerr agreed. "Next stream we cross, clean yourself." Partly disrobe in a stream where Skinks swarmed at him? Was Corporal Kerr crazy?

Unlike Doyle, Kerr had been on Waygone and he had fought the Skinks. He knew firsthand how ferocious they were. He also knew their weapons were short-range. A lone Marine with a blaster could take out a lot of Skinks before they got close enough to use their acid-shooting weapons. Unfortunately, 67 67 the sight lines in the swamp were short enough that the Skinks would be within range before the Marines could see them. Fortunately, the Marines weren't looking for Skinks, they were hunting rebels. There was no evidence of any alien sentience on Kingdom. Except for whatever it was that killed two Raptors and a Dragon-and Schultz's conviction that the Skinks were here. Schultz, almost preternaturally alert to begin with, became more so, if such a thing was possible. Against a human foe he was imperturbable. He understood humans and the way humans fought. He was a Marine, and he knew the Confederation Marines were the best warriors in the history of mankind. More, he knew that he was among the very best fighters the Marine Corps had. But the Skinks... He thought the Skinks were alien. They didn't live and fight with the same imperatives humans did. Their base, genetic motives were somehow different. He didn't know in what way they were different, or why they were different. But he remembered the fanaticism with which they'd fought on Waygone, and their fanaticism had combined with their overconfidence and small numbers to allow a lone Marine platoon to defeat them.

The Skinks were on Kingdom in such large numbers that the local armed forces were being slaughtered, along with large numbers of civilians-Schultz lifted his shields and spat; only the most vile soldiers slaughter civilians-and the Confederation had to intervene. To Schultz, the only way to deal with Skinks was to nuke the entire planet, make it uninhabitable. One Marine FIST wasn't enough to defeat them. Schultz repressed a shiver. He'd been in tight situations before, fights in which many Marines had died. There had even been a few battles he hadn't expected to survive. But he didn't believe he'd ever been in as deadly a position as he was in just then. He thought they were all going to die.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

"Amen," p.r.o.nounced Increase Harmony, the obligatory benediction completed. He raised his head to the others gathered about the conference table. "The City of G.o.d shall prevail," he added.

"G.o.d's will," the six men intoned as one.

"We are as merry as men bound for heaven." Harmony smiled.

"That we are, Brother Harmony," Chajim Nishmath agreed, stroking his long white beard thoughtfully.

"Brothers," he said, addressing the others, "we have important business to discuss this day and time is perilously short."

The seven men gathered in conference were the leading ministers of the City of G.o.d sect. A neo-Puritan movement, the City of G.o.d rejected a formal church structure. Each individual congregation or "meeting" was totally independent of the others that loosely composed the sect. Each meeting had its minister, who provided the congregation with spiritual guidance and leadership in formal gatherings for worship, but his tenure was subject to the approval of the congregation and he could be removed by a vote. The career of a successful minister in a City of G.o.d meeting had to be highly political as well as theologically sound-the City of G.o.d based its creed strictly upon the literal interpretation of the Authorized Version of the Bible, widely known as the King James Version. Each congregant knew his Bible well from an early age, and any deviation from its teachings on the part of any minister or other congregant was fuel for scandal.

The members of the City of G.o.d sect were dour, hardworking, no-nonsense people. They observed no 68 68 church holidays, dressed plainly always, and, aside from singing psalms, eschewed churchly music of any kind. The City of G.o.d was only a minor sect among the many sectarian movements that made up the political life on the Kingdom of Yahweh and His Saints and Their Apostles, but in times of crisis its members were capable of incredible sacrifice and solidarity, and therefore it had survived from the earliest days of settlement on Kingdom. The seven men around the table were the ministers of large congregations, and they had been leading their flocks successfully for years. As long as they lived and preached, their church would continue to thrive. They would allow nothing to interfere with that. They were survivors. And it was a time for surviving.

"When the Convocation meets tomorrow, we shall remain silent," Jacob Zebulon reminded them. "We shall sit and listen and bide our time, and in the fullness of time the will of the Lord shall be apparent to the Ec.u.menical Leaders."

The Ec.u.menical Leaders of Kingdom's sects were meeting the next day in Convocation at Mount Temple to consider the present crisis. The seven ministers would represent the City of G.o.d at the Convocation. Mount Temple was a holy place to all the sects on Kingdom, a neutral spot where they could put aside their differences and meet to solve common problems.

"They consider Mount Temple a place free of Satan," Canon Barjona sneered, "but when the sects gather there it is nothing but a temple of the devil!" The others murmured their a.s.sent. "I feel unclean even thinking about the apostates who'll be gathered there tomorrow."

"We must be there, brothers," Harmony sighed. "I have discussed with you before my Particular Faith, brothers, that this Convocation will be most significant to the future of our church." A Particular Faith, a carryover from the early days of Puritanism, was a divinely inspired intimation sent to men by G.o.d's angels to show them the Way.

"We too have had them, Brother Increase," Elnathan Jones said. "It does not surprise me that the Hand of G.o.d has descended upon our elite and opened our eyes to the machinations of Satan and his minions."

"Brothers," Jacob Zebulon intoned, "are the People ready? Are they ready, as the Jews of old, to flee Egypt into the Wilderness?"

"Aye, when the Convocation is concluded, we shall be ready, brother," the others responded. Before the Cambria Cambria was destroyed and vengeance could descend upon them, the entire congregations of the City of G.o.d would be long gone into the wildernesses of Kingdom, to refuges in the vast wastelands of the planet, there to weather the storm that was sure to descend upon them as soon as the news was out that the ship had been destroyed by their men. was destroyed and vengeance could descend upon them, the entire congregations of the City of G.o.d would be long gone into the wildernesses of Kingdom, to refuges in the vast wastelands of the planet, there to weather the storm that was sure to descend upon them as soon as the news was out that the ship had been destroyed by their men.

"We are going to show them all a thing or two," Eliashub Williams rumbled.

"That we are, Brother Williams! That we are!" Harmony said. "Only the Confederation, in league with the Convocation, could be responsible for these depredations, and you all know, brothers, that the purpose of these incursions is to set Confederation troops among us to destroy us! Well," he shook his fist in direction of Haven, where the sanctuary of Mount Temple was located, "the scales shall be dropped from their eyes and they shall see the truth."

"They'll see it, all right, from every hemisphere on the planet Earth." Williams chuckled. 69 69 "Brothers, before we depart here for Mount Temple, let us pray for the souls of our brave brethren who will show the light to the people of Earth. They should already be aboard the Cambria Cambria and en route to glory." and en route to glory."

The seven men bowed their heads and began to recite the Twenty-third Psalm of David.

Bishop Ralphy Bruce Preachintent drummed his fingers impatiently on the tabletop.

"Brother Ralphy Bruce, would you please stop that?" Chairman Shammar asked. Bishop Preachintent had been last year's chairman of the Convocation of Ec.u.menical Leaders. This year it was the turn of the leader of Kingdom's largest Muslim sect, Ayatollah Jebel Shammar. Ralphy Bruce was included in the select company seated around the conference table because he was the spiritual leader of Kingdom's largest evangelical sect. The other three holy men-Swami Nirmal Bastar, Cardinal Leemus O'Lanners, and the Venerable Muong Bo-represented the largest Hindu, Catholic, and Buddhist sects respectively. Together the five men were the spiritual leaders of three-fifths of Kingdom's population, and since Kingdom was a theocracy, they were also the five most powerful political figures on the planet.

"Need I remind anyone that tomorrow begins the Convocation of Ec.u.menical Leaders? We must decide now on the strategy we wish to pursue in this time of crisis," Shammar told the others, but he looked straight at Bishop Preachintent as he spoke.

"It is not the dissidents who are responsible for the destruction that has been visited upon us," the Venerable Muong Bo said. "They have neither the forces nor the organization to defeat the Army of G.o.d."

"You are right, Venerable," Ayatollah Shammar responded. "It has to be the Confederation itself, brothers."

"Yes, and their goal is the subjugation of our world and the destruction of our sacred beliefs and practices!" Swami Bastar almost shouted. Of all the sects on Kingdom, Bastar's was the most controversial, mainly because it adamantly refused to abandon the ancient practices of its ancestors, which included the immolation of wives on their husbands' funeral pyres.

"Has anyone considered," Ralphy Bruce began, his voice deceptively calm, "that possibly, just possibly, what is happening might be due TO THE WRATH OF A VENGEFUL G.o.d AS AN EXAMPLE TO US SINNERS?" He shouted the last words at the top of his voice. The Venerable Muong Bo winced. "No," he responded.

"You are beginning to sound like a minister of the City of G.o.d, dear brother Ralphy Bruce." Swami Bastar smiled.

"Hmpf. Well. I just meant that is a possibility, my friends!" Preachintent went back to drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

"Brothers," began Cardinal Leemus O'Lanners, leader of the ultraconservative breakaway Catholic sect known as the Fathers of Padua, "in my Father's house there are many mansions." The others raised their eyebrows slightly. Cardinal O'Lanners was not known for the clarity of his sermons, which were mostly in Latin anyway, the official language of the Fathers. But he was a magnificent specimen of a churchman, 70 70 in his bright red robes and with his huge patrician nose.

"Well, yes... yes. Ahem. Things only happen through the will of Allah, His name be praised." Ayatollah Shammar nodded respectfully at his Buddhist and Hindu colleagues. "But what we have here, I think, is purely a political situation. For many years the Confederation has been dissatisfied with the way we run things on our beloved Kingdom. They are unable, under the rules of their Const.i.tution, to interfere directly in our affairs," he shrugged, "but were we for some reason to ask for their military a.s.sistance," he paused, "they would have a foothold on our world. The camel's nose, so to speak, would then be firmly under our tent."

"Well, that is just what we have done!" Preachintent protested. The request for military a.s.sistance from the Confederation had been made during his own chairmanship.

"Individually, there are many things we cannot see, but collectively," Shammar shrugged, "our vision is clear."

"Then why didn't any of you speak up during the last Convocation?" Bishop Ralphy Bruce muttered as he went back to drumming his fingers.

"We will give them the foothold they want," Shammar continued. "We will then direct their forces against the sects that have been giving us trouble." He smiled. "We are not without allies in the Confederation. Once the designs of their government are known, we can lobby for a complete withdrawal of their forces. The Confederation government in Fargo may sometimes operate in violation of its own Const.i.tution, but its Congress is jealous of its prerogatives, and the Confederation is a democracy. Policy set by any democratic power is fickle, subject to the whims of the peoples' representatives. If we stick together in this, we can achieve the goal we all have always wanted-the complete destruction of the heretical sects."

"Brothers, I hear you and I will go along with you," Bishop Ralphy Bruce said. "Now, brothers, I know you think I'm just an uneducated country preacher"-the others protested this loudly-"but you have seen the destruction, talked to the survivors! This terror is not the work of Confederation military forces!

There is something about what is happening out there that is... is..."

"Otherworldly?" Shammar interjected. "We all believe in the spiritual, Brother Ralphy Bruce, but I a.s.sure you, these attacks are strictly of this world. But if they are a sign from Allah, His name be praised, who is He using as His agent, then? Can you answer me that? What force is the Almighty employing that works like armored fighting vehicles?"

The four men fell silent. Bishop Ralphy Bruce Preachintent stared at his fingers. "I do not know," he answered softly, "and really, neither do any of us."

"The second best thing Creadence did was to get the h.e.l.l out of here," Jayben Spears, newly arrived amba.s.sador to the Kingdom of Yahweh and His Saints and Their Apostles, told Prentiss Carlisle, his chief-of-station. "And how d.a.m.ned smart was I to take this job, eh?" Spears laughed.

"Well, sir, I didn't get to know him that well. I was only here a month between the time Harly Thorogood died and Amba.s.sador Creadence was transferred."

"Ah..." Spears waved his hand and poured them both more Reindeer ale. "I got used to this stuff when I 71 71 was amba.s.sador to Wanderjahr," he remarked as he poured. "I worked closely with Ted Sturgeon there, as you know. Thirty-fourth FIST is based on Thorsfinni's World, and they drink this animal p.i.s.s by the gallon. It's pretty good too, once you get by the taste."

"I've got to tell you, sir," Carlisle couldn't suppress a laugh, "you really stunned old Lambsblood, the way you greeted Brigadier Sturgeon." They both laughed. Carlisle couldn't help remembering the astonished look on the general's face as Amba.s.sador Spears slapped Brigadier Sturgeon on the back and they traded comradely insults like old friends. "Well," Carlisle continued with an effort, "we all thought you were going to retire after Wanderjahr, sir."

"Me too. But let me tell you something, Prentiss-my rank is Diplomatic Service One. Do you know how much a DS1 earns?" Spears laughed. "But I'm retiring after this a.s.signment, that's for G.o.dd.a.m.ned sure!" They drank. "So tell me, Prentiss, what's the take on this-this G.o.dd.a.m.ned rathole? What are the sky pilots down here up to? I got the full intelligence brief before I came out here, but you've been on the ground. What's your view?"

Prentiss shrugged and set his mug down. "Thorogood knew something, sir, but he didn't get a chance to pa.s.s it on. But from my short time here, my perspective is that, as usual, the powerful sects are trying to wipe out their lesser compet.i.tors. They're the ones who've been destroying these villages. Note that none of the places ravaged belong to any of the dominant sects. So they put the finger on some unspecified rogue member world of the Confederation as the culprit, and call us in to wipe out their main compet.i.tors, plus anyone else they don't feel like slaughtering themselves."

"But the so-called Army of G.o.d has taken some heavy casualties, Prentiss. That's beyond dispute."

"Yes, sir, but each of these sects has its own military force. The place abounds with small armies. I think the five major sects got together, pooled their resources, and then set the planetary army up to be the fall guys."

"They ambushed their own troops?"

"Yessir. That's the way I see it anyway. Sir, you have to remember, this place is a 'theocracy,' but the only thing these people believe in is power for themselves. They'll do anything to get it and keep it. That's why they're so afraid of dissidents with new ideas. The theocrats, through this Collegium thing-nothing more than a d.a.m.ned inquisition, you ask me-control both the minds and the bodies of their adherents. Then comes along this City of G.o.d movement-"

"Neo-Puritans," Spears interrupted.

"Yessir. They really believe the c.r.a.p they preach, say that for them. But they're crazy. And they're a threat to the ruling sects."

Spears was silent as he sipped his beer. "Well," he said at last, and grinned, "You know what the first best thing was that old Doc Friendly did? He asked for the Marines. Let me tell you, Prentiss, that was the best thing that ever happened to the Kingdom of Yahweh and His Saints and Their Apostles, whether they know it or not. Ever read anything by C. S. Lewis, Prentiss?"

"Can't say I ever heard of him, sir."

"Well, he wrote somewhere-his Screwtape Letters Screwtape Letters , I think-that when the Puritans lost their influence, people ceased to believe in the devil anymore, and that was the best thing that ever happened , I think-that when the Puritans lost their influence, people ceased to believe in the devil anymore, and that was the best thing that ever happened 72 72 to the devil. Do you think the devil is operating here on Kingdom, Prentiss?"

"I sure do, sir, and his name is Jebel Shammar."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

When contact finally came, it wasn't the battalion's right front corner that made it, it was the center of the formation's rear. All of M Company had followed a stream so sluggish it was nearly stagnant. Some of the Marines waded through it, probing its depths and its banks for anything or anyone hiding in its murkiness. They didn't probe deeply enough through the tangled b.u.t.tress roots of the trees that lived dangerously atop a deeply undercut section of bank, and so missed what hid there. When the sensors on the sides of the Leader commanding the twenty Fighters who hid within the roots told him the Earthmen were all past, he gave the signal and his Fighters swam into the stream. Some of them stood in the chest-deep water; most slithered up the banks. Second platoon, which had lost much of its strength so horrendously when Dragon 3 exploded, was rear guard. PFC Zhaque, the rearmost Marine in the column, wasn't experienced enough for walking backward to be second nature for him, the way it was for experienced rear points, so he was facing front when the Skinks came out of hiding and he didn't see them. Lance Corporal Schindigh, the Marine in front of him, on the other hand, was experienced enough to automatically maintain contact with the column and the rear point. Schindingh was also facing forward when the Skinks emerged from the water, but he turned around an instant before the Leader shrilled the command for his Fighters to open fire.

"Behind us!" The sound of Schindigh's voice was drowned out in the crack-sizzle of his blaster as he opened fire on the Skinks. He dove for the ground as he fired, and his gaping jaw slammed shut when he hit-the Skink he'd snap-fired at was. .h.i.t a glancing blow and flared up in a flash of fire. Schindigh's shock at the sight had popped his mouth open. When it was jarred closed, he bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. The shock and pain distracted him just long enough for a Skink to point its weapon's nozzle and send a streamer of greenish fluid toward him. He saw it coming in time and rolled out of the way, but more Skinks were spraying in his direction and he was. .h.i.t by two streams. He screamed. Zhaque, meanwhile, stood frozen for long seconds before he dropped. Five Skinks fired toward him, and three of their streams. .h.i.t. He died agonizingly within seconds. The remaining Marines of M Company's second platoon scrambled to face the threat from their rear. Captain Boonstra, the company commander, raced back to eyeball the situation. As he ran he ordered his other two platoons to maneuver to his flanks. He got there just in time to see a Skink flare up from a blaster hit.

He'd heard that someone flashed like that the first time his company encountered this enemy, but hadn't believed it.

Only two Marines from second platoon were still fighting. Boonstra called for his other two platoons to get into position fast-fast-fast!

Sergeant Janackova and his squad were the first to get on line with the company commander. They couldn't see where the enemy was.

"Range?" Janackova asked into his helmet comm.

"Thirty," Boonstra snapped back. 73 73 "Volley, thirty," Janackova ordered his squad. "NOW!" The Marines aimed and fired as one. A line of mud and wet foliage steamed up when the seven bolts. .h.i.t. "FIRE!" Janackova ordered again. Another seven bolts shot forward, raising more steam and a little black smoke where they hit. Another squad from M Company's first platoon reached the line and joined in the volley fire. They were greeted by a brilliant flash as another Skink flared into vapor. In another moment all of M Company was on line, volley firing into the swamp to the battalion's rear. There were more flashes from vaporizing Skinks, and the screams of wounded and dying Marines punctuated the firing. Flames began to flicker in the scorched foliage.

When he didn't see any more flashes for fifteen seconds, Boonstra ordered the volleys adjusted to forty meters. Then he ordered, "Scatter fire!" and the Marines ceased their disciplined fire in favor of bolts shot in random patterns.

Soon no more streams of greenish fluid sprayed at them from the front, no more lights flashed. A cloud of steam grew in the canopy as flames from dried foliage licked higher.

"Cease fire!" Boonstra ordered. He studied his company's front while he reported to Commander van Winkle.

The fire team and squad leaders gathered their casualty reports and gave them to their platoon commanders, who relayed the reports to the company command element. Captain Boonstra's heart sank when he got them. Second platoon was dead, only one member of it left uninjured. Half of the survivors of the destroyed Dragon were dead, and the rest were wounded by the acid. Most of the wounded needed immediate evacuation. His other platoons were in better shape, but his company was down to half strength.

"On your feet," he ordered, doing his best to keep the pain of the losses out of his voice. "We're going to sweep that area and look for bodies. If you find anybody alive, try to keep them that way, we need prisoners to question."

The Marines of M Company rose to their feet and cautiously moved back the way they'd come. They found scorched spots where Skinks had flared up, but there were no bodies to be found, much less live ones to be taken prisoner.