Free Star Corps by Ian Douglas Page A

.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œNever mind. We might have hit a few civilians with flying chunks of truck, but it happened so quickly, I doubt the newsie remotes saw what happened or could reconstruct it. And I don’t think they’ll be eager to try another mob rush, do you?”
    â€œYou got that right, sir,” Karelin said. “Look at ’em run!”
    She’d stepped the magnification on her scope down to take in the entire sweep of the west bank of the Nile, from El Giza north to the University of Cairo and beyond to the district of El Duqqi. The panicked mob was dispersing back across the Gama and Giza bridges.
    The mullahs might be able to assemble the mob again, but it would take time.
    And maybe help would arrive by then.
    Maybe.

4
    5 JUNE 2138
    Giza Complex
Kingdom of Allah, Earth
1838 hours Zulu
    Like a large and exceptionally ugly beetle, all angles and planes and outstretched landing jacks, the first dropship drifted down out of the evening sky on shrieking plasma thrusters, moving toward the bare patch of desert south of the Sphinx marked by the brilliantly pulsing green landing beacon.
    Unlike the suborbital TAVs that had brought in the Marines, these were true spacecraft, big UD-4 Navajo cargo landers generating a million pounds of thrust through their six Martin-Electric plasmadyne jets. Air scoops gaped now, fans howling, gulping down air as reaction mass, saving precious water for higher altitudes, where the air ran thin or trailed away into vacuum.
    Sand exploded in swirling clouds from beneath the lander as it touched down, sagging slightly as its hydraulics took up the shock of landing. Belly doors gaped open, interlocking square teeth sliding apart to disgorge eight light Rattlesnake robot tanks, four Cobra medium MBTs, a pair of massive Gyrfalcon mobile artillery crawlers, two twenty-ton cargo floaters, and four armored personnel carriers. The dropship lifted again in a sandblasting whirlwind as soon as its cargowas clear. Other dropships were touching down at marked LZs elsewhere across the Giza Plateau.
    Warhurst trotted up to the lead APC, which was just beginning to unbutton. The markings indicated American rapid-deployment infantry. He was surprised, having expected a joint Confederation unit coming in by TAV from the UK, not American troops. And the UD-4s meant they’d deployed from orbit, probably from the Army’s Rapid Deployment Force Orbital Station in low orbit.
    A man in an Army active-camo armor cuirass and brown fatigues, with a major’s oak leaf insignia painted on his shoulder pieces and the RDF’s lightning bolt insignia on his breast, clambered down the aft ramp as a line of fully armored troops piled out of the APC and jogged out onto the sand.
    â€œWho’s in charge here?” the major demanded.
    â€œCaptain Warhurst, 2nd Regiment, U.S. Marines.” He didn’t salute. Standing orders required a suspension of any military protocol that might allow the enemy to target officers.
    â€œMajor Rostenkowski, 5th Light Infantry.”
    â€œWelcome to Egypt, Major.”
    â€œGood to be here. You are relieved, Captain,” the major said. “The Army has the situation in hand.”
    â€œAbout damned time, Major,” Warhurst said. He turned his head to watch the soldiers falling into line as a sergeant bawled orders at them. “What happened to the Confed relief?” The last he’d heard, his relief was supposed to be a couple of Russian platoons, some light German armor, and a detachment of Brits.
    Rostenkowski grinned. “Bogged down in politics, as per SOP. Washington is getting it from all sides these days, and the Confederation isn’t sure they want to play along. The Joint Chiefs elected to send us instead. You and your boys and girls are to hustle ass back to Quantico for debrief. What’s your tacsit?”
    â€œGive me your feed channel, sir.”
    They matched ’ware frequencies, and