When I step into the open cockpit hatch, I see Sergeant Fallon and her NCO holding sidearms against the helmets of the pilots.
“Listen up, flyboy,” Sergeant Fallon tells the pilot, who looks every bit as stunned as his crew chief. “Your ride is now HD property. Unplug your helmet, get out of your seat, and walk off the ship.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind, Sergeant?” the pilot says.
“Not half as nuts as I was the day I signed up for this bullshit,” Sergeant Fallon replies. “Now make your call. Your fingers touch any buttons, I’ll put a round right through your hand, sport.”
She reaches across his chest and removes his sidearm from its holster. The muzzle of the pistol in her other hand never wavers. The pilot carefully unbuckles his harness and starts to get out of his seat.
“No need for violence, Sarge. It’s not like you can do a damn thing with this bird anyway.”
“Whatever you say,” Sergeant Fallon says.
When both pilots are out of their seats, Sergeant Fallon marches them out of the cockpit at gunpoint. I retreat into the armory nook behind the cockpit to let them pass.
“Cameron, she’s all yours. Andrew, you may want to come with me.”
In the cockpit, the HD sergeant picks up the pilot’s helmet and wedges himself into the right-hand seat.
“Uh, Sarge?” I ask. “You sure you want him to fly this thing?”
“Why the fuck not?” she says. “That’s what he does for a living back home. He’s one of our Hornet pilots.”
I remember her comment about reshuffling the HD battalion’s personnel roster, about making sure the right people are in the right places. The HD “sergeant” behind the stick raises two fingers to the brow ridge of his helmet in a casual salute, and I grin.
You can’t land something as big and noisy as a Dragonfly in the middle of a colony settlement without drawing instant attention. Whatever element of surprise the combat descent may have bought us, the HD troopers let it evaporate by not charging into the storage bunker that was our squad’s objective. A few minutes after our arrival, the place is lousy with curious civilians. The HD troopers merely stand in a group near the entrance of the bunker, helmet visors raised and weapons slung.
“All squads, objectives secure. The birds are in the nest.”
Sergeant Fallon sends out a curt acknowledgment in reply. Then she takes off the helmet and walks up to the nearest gaggle of civilians.
“Go fetch the administrator and the chief constable, please. And be quick about it. We don’t have much time.”
The colony administrator shows up a few minutes later on an ATV, accompanied by Chief Constable Guest and two of his officers. They climb off their vehicle and approach Sergeant Fallon, who is the only one of us without a full-coverage helmet on her head. The administrator looks livid, and the cops don’t seem to be in a friendly mood, either.
“The hell are you people doing at the food bunker, geared up for a fucking war?” he shouts at Sergeant Fallon. “Pack up your troops and go back to base. You have no business claiming civilian assets.”
“Shut up and listen,” Sergeant Fallon replies. “We didn’t come to seize your shit. But the people they’ll send after us are going to.”
The administrator looks from Sergeant Fallon to her combat-ready troops.
“So what are you here for, dressed up like that?”
“They told us to seize your food and fuel,” she explains. “But I have no interest in following illegal orders today.”
Constable Guest folds his arms in front of his barrel chest and looks at me with a raised eyebrow and the faintest of smiles.
“You guys staging a mutiny, or what?”
“Looks like we are,” I reply.
“I don’t suppose that fleet in orbit is going to share your legal interpretation?” Constable Guest asks Sergeant Fallon.
“No, I don’t suppose they will,” she says. “Mainly because the guy who gave the order is in charge of that fleet, too.”
“That could be a problem,” the administrator says. “You guys are just a squad. They can come down here and haul you off to the brig any time they want, and then take our stuff anyway.”
“We’re a platoon,” Sergeant Fallon says. “The rest of my people are over at the airfield, your hydroponic farm, and the water facility. They’re digging in to defend.”
“How many troops they got up there, in orbit?”
“Most of a regiment of Spaceborne Infantry. Plus the two SI companies up at Camp Frostbite,” I say. “But the fleet isn’t going to be keen on shooting anything into the middle of civvie towns. They’ll have to come and pry us out the hard way.”
“I’m not wild about the idea of a shootout right here in the middle of town,” the administrator says. “There’s over ten thousand people down here, you know. Not a lot of clear space for stray bullets.”
“Yes, but they know that, too,” Sergeant Fallon says.