Denturo spat again. “All I’m saying is if the doros catch us out in the open… well, some of you queers are going home in a body bag.”
Wash had no idea whether there were dog-men nearby or not. He barely had any idea where they even were in the jungle. And if Berlin knew, he wasn’t doing a good job of explaining it. He needed to take off his blasted helmet so Wash could at least read his face. But then, Wash had a pretty strong hunch that his fellow appointed officer was teetering on the brink of panic. They were really part of a recon patrol moving through contested jungles. And if something as simple as orienteering was causing this much of delay, they were definitely in over their heads.
Or at least Berlin was.
Wash felt he could figure things out once his friend’s hard-mounted mapping tech booted up. He just needed to know where they actually were.
“C’mon. C’mon,” urged Wash as Berlin’s wrist-mounted display screen communicated through a series of satellite and atmospheric relays, trying to get the information.
Finally, the map loaded and plotted their position, showing him a drift of a kilometer or less. Wash squinted at the grid coordinates. His stomach sank, and he could feel the blood draining from his face. The map had to be wrong. They were farther north into the jungles than any foray had previously gone. At least as far as Wash knew. This was practically in the heart of doro territory. Well behind enemy lines.
The Legion had been fought to a virtual standstill far south of here, giving it their all just to keep hold of its many firebases against nightly onslaughts. If the Legion itself isn’t able to roll this deep into the jungle, why the hell are we here? It had to be some kind of mistake. The SLIC pilots must’ve gotten lost and put them down on the wrong LZ.
But if they acted quickly, maybe they could still reach them over comms and call them back.
Wash looked up at Berlin. He could see his own reflection in his friend’s visor. “We’re not supposed to be here,” Wash whispered, tapping the display for Berlin to observe.
Berlin hunched over to take a look. “Yes, we are. This is the right place.” He had remembered to reduce the volume on his bucket’s external audio outputs so that his voice was a small hush. “We’re going to find that doro artillery that’s been wreaking havoc, and we’re either going to destroy it ourselves, or plot TRPs so we can get someone else to do the job. We’ll be heroes. Trust me.”
Wash didn’t know how to react. This was insane. It was suicide. It was the type of mission expected of Dark Ops kill teams. Only, Dark Ops wouldn’t send its legionnaires without any intel to go by. They’d plan it. Sandtable it. Rehearse it. And then execute.
“Do you have some kind of reason for thinking it’s even out this way?”
“Well,” said Berlin, “we’re deeper into Psydon than anyone. Where else would they hide it?”
“Berlin. No. This is a mistake. We need to scrub this mission now, because we will die out here. We need to call back the SLICs.”
Berlin shook his head adamantly. “We’re out here until the rendezvous. No turning back.”
“Well, then, what do you suggest we do here? The Navy hasn’t spotted the artillery through these canopies, and neither have fighter sorties. So how are we supposed to? And even if we did, they’ll be guarded by a division of doros.”
“Major. Lieutenant.” It was Sergeant Shotton. “There a problem?”
“No problem,” answered Berlin. “We’re about ready.”
“We’re not ready,” Wash hissed, for all the good it would do him.
Berlin tilted his head. “Wash, you’re overthinking this. We’ve got blasters, explosives, and Republic marines. Worst-case scenario, we find the target, note its position, and then call in some crustbusters to take it out. Best case, we take it and destroy it ourselves. Big win. All is forgiven.”
Wash opened his mouth to protest again, but Berlin was already rising to his feet.
“We’re moving south, Marines,” he said. And he led the way, leaving Wash kneeling in the grass.
The order was met with borderline sarcasm as the marines began to move out. “About time.”
The heavy footfalls of Denturo approached Wash, stalks of grass bending and thrashing as the big marine approached. He turned his head and spat. “Dobies for sure to the south. You two homos better not have another lovers’ spat and leave us hanging like that again. Or I’ll do you both quick and painless.”
05
The temperature of Wash’s broken-down office hab was a longed-for, fond memory as the recon team moved through the sweltering jungle. The air was teeming with biting insects, whose chittering calls mixed with all the other hidden creatures to fill the air with an incessant, and hypnotically disturbing, noise. The air was so humid Wash felt like each breath sent more warm water than air to the bottom of his lungs.
If Berlin were to hand Wash a commandeered Legion bucket, he would take it in a heartbeat. Of course, the helmet would need the rest of the armor to unlock its full potential, and Wash felt more and more exposed without his as each sword-like leaf of the surrounding jungle slashed his exposed arms.
At least he wasn’t wholly without protection. He had the flak jacket and the open-faced marine helmet from the SLIC. He again felt grateful to the marine sniper who had kitted him up.
Wash still had enough of his Legion Academy conditioning to keep up with the marines—more than keep up, really—but the march was difficult. The kilometer trek through the grass was followed by a tortuous six kilometers inside the tree line, with his heartbeat pounding the whole time in anticipation of a sudden firefight. There were no trails, so each man in the snaking reconnaissance column had to slither around obstacles, ducking spiked vines, odorous blossoms, and sticky, dripping mushrooms the size of hoverbikes. And Berlin’s disregard for the Academy’s conditioning was showing. The major trailed at the end of the line, clearly struggling with the relentless terrain. The climate controls probably helped him, and his bucket drowned out what Wash suspected was some heavy, labored breathing. It wasn’t like Berlin was doughy and lazy, but he wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t Legion, even though he dressed and looked the part.
Wash felt like a babysitter, hanging back to make sure his friend wasn’t separated from the rest of the column.
As Wash reached a massive tree along the jungle floor, at least twenty meters in circumference at its base, he saw Sergeant Shotton waiting for him.
“Sergeant,” said Wash.
“Your boy injure himself?” Shotton nodded back toward Berlin. “Moving awfully slow for a leej.”
Wash turned and watched his friend. Berlin was taking his time getting down from a fallen tree that had blocked their route. He seemed oblivious to the fact that the rest of the men were outpacing him by a good margin.
“Uh, I think he turned an ankle,” Wash lied.
“Guess he’s hiding it all right, then,” offered Sergeant Shotton diplomatically. “Well, it ain’t like those artillery are gonna outrun us. We either gonna find ’em or we ain’t.” After departing the LZ, Wash had related the mission objective—such as it was—to the sergeant, who’d relayed it to his men.
“Yeah,” muttered Wash.
“Anyway,” continued the sergeant, “I told the men to take a break and grab some chow. But if the major can continue on with me to the front, I wanna figure out how we’re going to handle this next stretch of jungle. It looks to open up a bit. Good place for a doro encampment… or an ambush.”
Wash nodded and waited for Berlin to join them.
“Hey,” panted Berlin. “What’re we standing around for?”
He sounded like the out-of-shape friend on a hike who was doing his best to appear all in. Only Wash knew he meant it. He was giving it his all. Berlin wasn’t a real legionnaire, but neither was he a quitter.
“Major,” Shotton said, pointing ahead, “we’ve been pushing south for a while. My men have come up on an opening that just don’t feel right. I need you to come forw
ard with me, sir, and tell me if we’re on the right course.”
Wash followed the two men silently. He didn’t like that Berlin was going to be the one deciding what came next, because he didn’t trust his friend to make the best decisions when it came to keeping himself, and these marines, alive. The fact that they were in this sweltering mess in the first place was proof enough of that.
Of course, Wash’s decision-making today hadn’t exactly been exemplary either. He had only himself to blame for coming along. But for Berlin’s sake, and for the sake of these men, he felt that his presence here was for the best. If he hadn’t come, Berlin might’ve already been left by the marines to find his own way home.
It would be up to Wash to make sure they got back to base safely.
And if he could pull that off, it would then be up to Berlin to make sure their careers weren’t ruined.
The trio passed marines resting on the jungle floor in silence as their brothers kept lookout. Denturo watched them pass by, and though he didn’t spit in Wash’s direction this time, he was staring daggers. “Took you homos long enough.”
The marine with the black hair who’d been seated next to Wash on the SLIC—PFC Haulman—stood amid of tangle of hanging vines that secreted some sort of sticky substance that entrapped small insects. He waved for Sergeant Shotton and the legionnaires to come forward.
“What’s up, Haulman?” asked the sergeant.
“Parker says he sees something,” the marine answered in a whisper. “Thinks it’s a dobie.”
“Okay,” Berlin said, “let’s go check it out, Sergeant. Lieutenant Washam, you stay here and guard the… back.”
“Yes, sir,” Wash said, though he very much wanted to go forward.
He found himself in the company of Denturo and the other marines. He looked for the sniper whose name he still didn’t know, but didn’t see him. Perhaps he was the “Parker” that Private Haulman had mentioned.
Denturo, reposed in a thick patch of yellow-flowering vines, heckled Wash. “Solve an argument for us, Leej. These guys here,” Denturo spat in the direction of the other marines, “all say the major is gonna be the first one to die out here. But I say… it’s you. So which is it?”
Wash walked over to the hulking marine, who was smiling at his own joke. He squatted down until he was looking Denturo straight in the eyes. “You’re gonna wanna get up right now, Marine.”
Denturo spat. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because those yellow flowers contain a nectar that doubles as a nerve-deadening agent. So I figure it won’t be long until all you feel on your rear end is pins and needles.”
“You an expert on that, LT?” Denturo asked. He was still defiant, but Wash saw a creeping concern in his eyes.
“I read the Psydon flora manual. Be a shame if you’ve gotta walk on numb legs through the jungle. Doros’ll hear that for sure. Then I guess you’ll be the first one dusted.”
Denturo’s face paled and he sprang to his feet, wiping the clinging flowers from his pants while his buddies did their best to stifle laughs behind open palms.
Wash turned, not bothering to hide the smile on his face.
Haulman was coming back in their direction. The marine signaled for Wash to follow, but to remain quiet. The other marines must’ve seen this too, as they all fell silent as a graveyard past dark.
Wash followed the marine, neither of them speaking, past massive, rain-catching leaves the color of emeralds. When they arrived at the foot of a small hill, Haulman motioned for Wash to go up, then the marine slid back into the jungle they’d come from.
At the top of the hill was another marine, crouched among odd, pink ferns. He pointed to Wash’s left, indicating for the legionnaire to move down the other side of the relatively sparse jungle hill. It was sun-soaked, clear of trees, and covered with a season’s worth of dried, decaying leaves and palms. Wash could see Berlin and Sergeant Shotton down there, ducking behind a massive fallen tree limb.
Dropping to his stomach, Wash slung his blaster rifle onto his back and pulled himself in a controlled low-crawl down the hill. At the bottom, he continued on his belly until he was covered by a vegetation line that allowed him to get to both feet and stoop.
There he found another marine stationed, this one with his arm up at a ninety-degree angle, a clear indicator for anyone behind him to stop. Wash stayed frozen for several seconds before the marine waved him forward to reach Shotton and Berlin. There was no doubt in Wash’s mind that they had come across something that, if not outright dangerous, demanded extreme caution.
After passing several more marines, Wash finally joined Shotton at the edge of what seemed to be a small valley, though it was hard to tell with the massive tree limb obstructing his view. Berlin was obviously still breathing heavily, the way his chest armor moved up and down, but his helmet continued to drown out the noise.
“What’s up?” Wash whispered.
Sergeant Shotton’s head was barely peeking over the top of the tree limb. “Take a look.”
Wash slowly brought his eyes above the limb to look down below. Doros—a species of vicious, dog-like pack warriors that could move on two or four legs—milled about in grungy fatigues. Each of the aliens had a beat-up looking blaster rifle slung over its shoulder. But with the exception of a few sentries, they seemed to carry about with a relaxed attitude. One group of the doros sat inside an open-walled structure with a corrugated metal roof, playing cards.
Wash dropped back down behind the tree limb and fumbled for his pack, retrieving his field macros.
“Wait a while,” called a calm voice hidden in nearby foliage. It was the sniper—Parker. “Two of the guards are making their rounds facing this way. I’ll tell you when they pass.”
His back against the log, Wash looked from Sergeant Shotton to Berlin. “This what we came to find?”
“I sure hope so,” said Berlin, his voice strong through his bucket’s external speakers. He didn’t sound all that winded.
“It’s something, all right,” said Shotton.
Wash couldn’t get a read on the man, other than that he sounded like a professional confirming the facts of the matter.
“I didn’t get the best look,” Wash said, “but I’d say maybe… twenty, thirty dobies.”
“Yeah,” Shotton muttered. “’Bout what I counted, too.”
“There’s forty-eight,” said Parker from the bushes. “About half of them are sleeping or playing cards. The rest are in two-man patrols or stationed in observation posts. It’s safe now, by the way.”
Wash crept up to have a quick second look with his macros. He skimmed the camp, counting concentrations of doros by sixes until he confirmed all forty-eight. He dropped back down behind cover.
“Forty-eight. Confirmed.”
“That’s more than triple our force,” Sergeant Shotton said. “So what’s the plan, Major?”
Berlin knocked on the chin of his helmet as though he was thinking the same thing. He rose up and placed both elbows on the limb, looking at the situation through the optical magnification his bucket’s visors provided. The way he was holding his hands, he looked to Wash as though he was praying.
“We sneak into their camp,” Berlin said, still watching. “I think we can get by ’em. Then we grab some intel and disappear back into the jungle. Easy.”
Parker leaned his head out of the bush in order to exchange a look with Sergeant Shotton.
“All right,” Shotton said, his face unreadable. “If that’s the order, I’ll get everybody up and in position. Unless you’d rather oversee that, Major?”
“Hmm?” Berlin sounded like he hadn’t quite been paying attention. He looked over to Shotton, as if waiting for his brain to catch up to the conversation. “Oh! No, you’re fine, Sergeant. You know what you’re doing. Whatever positioning you set up is okay by me. As long as it works out, that’s all I’m concerned with. I don’t need the honor.”
Wash drew his face back into a tight smile. T
hat probably wasn’t exactly leadership in action, but Shotton certainly was better suited to coordinate an infiltration on a fortified outpost than Berlin was. If anything, Berlin deserved a bit of credit for knowing his limitations. The way some of the other point officers talked, you’d think they were the second coming of General Rex himself. And that from a group of people who’d likely never even downloaded the tactical e-books required for their stint in the Legion Academy.
“Hey,” Berlin said, as though he were talking to himself. “Where are they all going?”
Wash popped up and followed Berlin’s line of sight with his field macros. Several of the dog-men were moving toward the edge of their camp in what looked like an orderly procession. They were speaking in their guttural language, but the distance was too great for any of it to be made out. Not that Wash spoke Doro. “They’re definitely up to something.”
“You probably can’t see it,” said Parker from inside his hide, “but there’s a big old transport truck on the extreme edge of the camp. Sitting on a dirt road. That’s where they’re headed.”
“Repulsor?” Wash asked.
“Nah. Tracks and wheels. Old. Probably running off of organics. Fossil fuels and the like.”
Wash nodded in agreement. They hadn’t seen much in the way of synthetic refineries in the doro cities. These more distant worlds still hadn’t caught up to the full scope of tech enjoyed by the rest of the galaxy. And Psydon wasn’t even really at galaxy’s edge. Things were even harsher out there.
“We should blow it up,” Berlin said decisively, sounding enthusiastic at the prospect. “We should destroy this whole camp.”
“Sir, not that I’m one to turn down a chance to kill dobies… I mean doros, as per the regs,” said Shotton, “but you just said our best plan was to sneak in long enough for a quick grab of intel. I thought our mission was to find those artillery platforms. We make a noise here, best believe that some doro running on four legs is gonna get the word out about us being in country. And that means all of us having to haul ass all the way to the LZ.” Shotton added a final mumble, just barely audible. “Speaking of which, I wouldn’t mind you sharing the location of our LZ with me, Major Berlin, in case something happens to you.”
Order of the Centurion Page 4