Lord of Janissaries Read Free Page B

dismounting the light machine-gun.
    More troopers ran past. They carried packs, sleeping bags, helmets, ammo boxes, mess gear; the usual impedimentia of a marching army. They were not making much noise, and there was surprisingly little confusion.
    Good troops, Rick thought. We did damned well, considering how little support we had. Not our fault we were beaten. For a collection of soldiers who had never served together before, we did damned well.
    “That’s the last,” Elliot shouted.
    Rick had been counting. “Only thirty-four went aboard.”
    Elliot looked ashamed. “I can’t find any more, Captain.”
    They’ve run, Rick thought. Well, I can understand that. I thought of it myself. “Get aboard, then,” he ordered. After Elliot climbed in, Rick followed. They were the last.
    As soon as Rick cleared the entryway, the outer door slid closed. When he went through into the compartment with the troops, that entryway closed also. They were blocked off from the outside and from the control room—or whatever that room was, Rick thought. Mason was still in there with the aliens.
    There was a loud musical tone, and a voice said, “Everyone will please sit on the floor. Quickly.”
    “Get down!” Rick shouted. “Hit the deck!” He sat heavily, just in time. There was a feeling of far too much weight, and some of the troops who hadn’t obeyed quickly enough fell heavily. Loose equipment fell and rolled around the compartment.
    There were sideways accelerations. The feeling of motion went on for a long time. Then it stopped and they had normal weight again.
    “Medic!” someone shouted. One of the troopers was holding his wrist, broken in a fall to the deck. Sergeant McCleve went to the downed man. McCleve was an older trooper, a career soldier rumored to have graduated from a Mexican medical school and unable to obtain a license to practice in the United States due to heavy drinking. Rick didn’t know, but McCleve had always seemed very competent.
    The troops were all talking at once. Some swore, and one or two prayed. Others got up and roamed around the compartment. There was nothing to see.
    They were in a large rectangular metal room, and very little more could be said about it. Rick couldn’t even tell where the light came from; it was just there, and although there were multiple shadows, they were very faint.
    “I think we got away,” Rick shouted. “Let the Cubans figure that one out!”
    There was a cheer that sounded artificial. Rick smiled grimly. He didn’t feel much like cheering himself.
    “Level with us, sir,” Corporal Gengrich said. “How’d the CIA get a thing like this? And why the hell did they need us if they’ve got—” he waved expressively—“these?”
    It was a good question, and Rick had no idea of how to answer.
    “All in good time,” Lieutenant Parsons said. “All in good time. Count your blessings.”
    “But—” Gengrich began.
    “Shut up.” Sergeant Elliot was nervous and fell back on military tradition as something familiar and understood. An officer had spoken, and that was that.
    It won’t last, Rick thought. Elliot had strong views about officers: he assumed they were competent, wanted them to be, demanded that they be. He knew that there were plenty of incompetents with bars and leaves, but he was proud enough of his Army that he’d kill himself trying to cover for them. But Rick suspected that Elliot would not hesitate to frag a bad officer for the honor of the corps.
    There were more accelerations, this time not so violent. The ship was turning. Rick felt trapped, but he tried to keep his expression calm and unworried. He didn’t know how successful he was at that, but he thought it was important that the troops think he was confident.
    We are, he thought, thirty-six armed men and some heavy weapons, in a ship controlled by aliens— aliens! I don’t have the faintest notion of where I am, where we’re going, or what those creatures want with us.
    He was