Berlin nodded. “Yeah, I’ll tell you about it later. But if we were to take this place out… how can we take this place out?”
“We’d better do it quick,” the sniper said. “That truck ain’t just waitin’ around for nothing. It’s obviously getting ready to move.”
Wash considered what was before them. It wasn’t the artillery platforms, but that was a needle-in-a-haystack mission; the entire Republic fighting force hadn’t been able to find and destroy those. Still, this was a doro outpost, and they had an opportunity to take it out. And Wash was confident they would be able to overwhelm the dog-men with a surprise attack.
And then he saw something that made the decision to take the camp mandatory.
“Sergeant Shotton,” Wash said, almost surprised by the strong, Legion-trained tone of command in his voice. “Bring the rest of your men up. Let’s get them into position to eliminate the sentries and move into the camp. We should be able to eliminate them in the confusion before they have the chance to raise an alarm and rally.”
Shotton hesitated. He seemed both annoyed and reluctant to listen to the orders of this legionnaire lieutenant wearing a mishmash of Legion fatigues and marine combat greens.
Wash stabbed a finger in the direction he’d been looking. “Now, Sergeant?”
Shotton squinted his eyes, searching for what Wash was pointing out. Then his face lit up with surprise. “Oh, hell. Right away!”
The sergeant disappeared, leaving the two appointed legionnaires and the marine recon sniper as the only remaining vigil.
“Lieutenant Washam,” the sniper said calmly. “I’m watching the truck through my scope, and it’s a pretty narrow field of vision. You wanna share with me what got Sarge’s panties in a bunch like that?”
“You got eyes on the truck’s exhaust pipes?”
“Yeah.”
“Scan twenty degrees. Your left. Beneath the camo cargo net.”
Berlin, obviously struck with curiosity, began to look in the same direction. “What are we looking for here, Wash?”
“Holy…” the sniper said.
Underneath the canopy net—the type designed to stay hidden from the Republic’s roving eyes above—sat a group of humans, their arms flex-tied behind their backs. The prisoners sat cross-legged, guarded by doros with well-worn blaster rifles at the ready, barking menacingly. The captives appeared to be Republic Army or Marines, but it was tough to tell from this vantage point.
“I’m willing to bet that’s the cargo intended for the waiting truck,” Wash said.
Berlin had finally spotted them. He placed both hands flat against the limb providing cover. “Holy sket! This is great! Wash, we’ve got to rescue them.”
Initially, Wash had determined to argue against sneaking into the camp. Better to log its location and call in a bombing run once they’d returned to base. But now, seeing that the lives of fellow Republic citizens were at stake, the game had changed. Whether Legion or marine, you didn’t leave your brothers to die.
The doros had them outnumbered, but a twelve-man recon team enjoying the element of surprise should be capable of securing its objective. So long as everything was done just right. The single biggest factor was time. Could they get themselves set up and in position before the prisoners were loaded into the truck and carried off to their next destination?
“Parker,” Wash said, realizing as he did that he was only guessing that this was the sniper’s name. He hadn’t confirmed it.
“Yeah?”
“We can’t let that truck get out of here. Do you have anything capable of stopping it?”
A full Legion team would have a heavy equipped with anti-vehicle weaponry. Wash wasn’t unfamiliar with how a marine recon team was loaded out.
“We’ve got a portable launcher, but it’s back with the others. I can make a shot though, man. Maybe clip the driver through the glass. Vehicle’s too old to have anything thick enough to stop what we’re bringing to the party.”
Wash considered this. If the vehicle was moving, taking out the driver could be a bit of a wild card. If the dead doro were to get its foot stuck to the acceleration pedal or lean hard against the steering column, the truck could careen out of control. And if that thing rolled… well, you wouldn’t want to be sitting in the back where the prisoners would be gathered.
“Roger that. Is that our only option?”
“Might be able to shoot out the engine. That is, if I’m right about how it’s powered. That would stop the thing in its tracks.”
Wash nodded. “Do whatever it takes. Let’s just keep as many of our guys alive as possible.”
Our guys.
Wash might be an appointed officer. He might never be accepted into the fraternity. But these were still his guys. And he was all in.
Sergeant Shotton returned, moving quietly ahead of the full grouping of marines. They joined the makeshift command center behind the fallen tree limb. “We’re up. What’s next, Lieutenant?”
Berlin seemed transfixed by all of this, watching both Wash and Shotton, waiting to see what would happen next. He made no pretense of wanting to give input.
“Gear up to take out the sentries.” Wash pointed at two marines. “You two: move around the west slope and get your sights on the two doros patrolling the camp’s perimeter.”
The marines nodded and began to move. If they felt any hesitancy in following Wash, the commanding issuance of orders swept it all away. These marines were trained to fight, and they were being given orders regarding a fight that was about to go down sudden and quick.
Not wasting time with words, Wash gave silent instructions, pointing at teams of two and directing them to their objective. He trusted the marines to kill, the same as if they were Legion. They would slaughter as many doros as possible through stealth, and then get the rest of them once things got noisy.
With the marines moving out to eliminate sentries or to position themselves to send plunging fire into the camp, Wash spoke again in whispers to Parker. “Once they’re set up, you have a green light. Take the shots you have to. But let us stay hidden as long as we can. Only… not at the expense of letting the truck get away.”
“Copy that, Lieutenant.”
Satisfied, Wash turned to Sergeant Shotton, pointing over the top of the limb with two fingers. “We’re going down there. Gonna creep right up into the camp so we’re in position to take those guards out once the shooting starts.”
“All right,” grunted Shotton. “Hopefully my knees don’t creak so much they give us away.”
“What about me?”
Berlin might not have wanted to be involved in the planning, but he clearly didn’t want to miss out on the action. It didn’t matter to him who decided how the fight went down, only that he was in it.
And Wash knew he couldn’t cut his friend out. He knew that if he tried, Berlin wouldn’t hesitate to use his rank. Berlin needed this fight; in his mind, his entire future life depended on it. And in a way it did.
“Blocking position,” Wash said. “Call out targets for Parker, but be ready to cut off any doros if they try to climb up this hill.”
“Right,” Berlin said with a nod. “I can do that.”
Wash nodded back. If there was confusion among the marines about which legionnaire was in charge of the mission, this interaction probably didn’t help matters. Wash bumped a fist against Berlin’s armored shoulder. “You got this, Major. Doros will probably run up this hill so fast once the shooting starts that you’ll get more kills than anyone else.”
“We ready?” asked Sergeant Shotton, who was staring at Berlin suspiciously.
“Yeah,” Wash said. “Let’s get into position.”
“Hey,” said Berlin, grabbing Wash’s arm as he began to move by. “I’m seeing all these green dots moving around the perimeter in my helmet. What is… is that bad?”
“Oba,” said a stunned Sergeant Shotton. Any doubt as to whether his commanding officer was capable had now been confirmed.<
br />
But Wash didn’t have time to smooth things over between his friend and the sergeant. The marines would just have to accept that they were being led through the jungle by one of the Republic’s shiny new appointed Legion officers. And anyway, Wash was going to show them firsthand that he, at least, knew how to KTF.
“Green dots are marines. Your bucket is tracking their embedded micro-transponders—part of their meat tags.”
“Got it,” said Berlin. “Green dots mean good guys.”
Wash gave a wan smile. “Just don’t even shoot in the direction of those dots. You see something over there, call it out to Parker and have him take the shot. Blocking position, remember? Don’t leave the spot unless you’re absolutely sure you’re going to be overrun. And even then, don’t run unless Parker tells you to.”
“Shoot every doro that gets close,” offered Sergeant Shotton, his professional cool taking over. “That’s all we need from you, Major.”
Wash nodded and looked to the sergeant. “Let’s move.”
06
Wash and Sergeant Shotton moved around the fallen limb and crouched in a patch of fragrant blooming plants that smelled of anise and vanilla. Wash held up a hand to tell Shotton that this was as far as they needed to go.
The marines were still stalking through the underbrush, closing in on their assigned kills. Most of the sentries were relatively exposed, but one pair of doros were emplaced with a heavy machine gun behind sandbags on a wooden platform. The dog-men were oriented to face the road, evidently feeling that it was the most likely direction of attack. Which made sense, because to date no one in the Legion or Republic had dropped a team in the middle of nowhere to blaze an alternate path through un-scouted jungle.
Only a point would be dumb enough to try that.
Denturo and another marine crept through the foliage, stalking the gunners in the nest like savage predators. With the camp distracted, the two marines were able to dash out of the jungle, taking cover on the blind side of the sandbags. They had their knives out, blades powder-coated black so as not to reflect the sun, and as they charged the emplacement, they thrust the blades into the doros’ bark-boxes, sinking them to the hilt and holding the dog-men’s muzzles closed with their free hands. Denturo lifted his doro’s spasming body off the ground, keeping it from knocking around anything that might draw attention, until the dog-man went slack and was laid limply below the cover of the sandbags with an ironic and almost affectionate gentleness.
The big marine—whose cheek looked swollen with stim even from Wash’s distant vantage point—held up a hand to let his sergeant know that they were now in place.
Shotton nodded and directed Wash’s attention to the other machine gun nest. Again, it looked as though the recon team had arrived from the one direction the doros hadn’t expected. They were ready for an attack coming from the Republic’s lines, not from behind their own.
Berlin truly had convinced the SLIC pilots to go deep behind enemy lines. It was a wonder they’d done so.
With the doro machine gunners’ backs turned—exposed to Shotton’s recon patrol—two marines Wash didn’t know moved into position. Unlike Denturo, these men wouldn’t have the opportunity for a silent takedown. Not without being seen. They held grenades, which would be the smartest and—for them—safest way to take out their target.
Sergeant Shotton held up a hand, telling the marines not to throw them yet. There was one more important takedown needed before the big boom: the guard tower, which Haulman was going after. He was by far the most exposed marine as he climbed, even with his buddy watching his back from a covered spot on the ground below.
Haulman slowly climbed up rung by rung, moving precisely, painstakingly slow, so as not to make any noise. A single doro sentry atop the wooden structure looked out casually at the jungle, facing opposite his enemy. He leaned against one of the support beams that held up a canvas providing shade to his canine-like head.
Haulman paused at the top rung, ready to slip inside.
“Tell them ten seconds once we reach the hut where those doros are playing cards,” Wash instructed Shotton.
The sergeant conveyed the order in three sets of hand motions. They had short-range comms, of course, but the intensity of the situation was such that no one wanted to speak. And the doros were known to listen in on the open military comms—all save the Legion’s ultra-encrypted L-comm. It would all be easier with Legion helmets, but they were doing it the old-fashioned way. Knife work, and a bloody business at that.
Wash found it both exhilarating and terrifying to watch. He pushed aside his emotions—pushed out any thoughts about what might happen to him if the doros were to capture him, or any of them. With Sergeant Shotton at his side, he began to quietly move down the depression, creeping toward the camp, trusting the sniper and Berlin to keep them safe. Trusting that the other marines poised to storm the camp would do their jobs when the time came.
Just inside the camp, they came upon the small shack with a single wall where the dog-men were playing cards. Wash had been counting down in his head, knowing that the sentry in the guard tower should be dead soon, and then the machine gun nest would be grenaded.
Making a split-second decision, he grabbed a fragmentary grenade of his own, setting it to explode two seconds after he released the kill switch.
Looking toward the prisoners’ holding area, still distant, Wash made eye contact with one of the captives. She was an Army basic, arms tied behind her back and wearing the standard fatigues of a supply soldier, stripped down to pants and the standard-issue tank top. Claw marks on her arms, right below the shoulder, suggested her jacket had been ripped away. Her helmet was missing, and her black hair rested messily on sunburnt shoulders, making her already deep brown skin appear that much darker.
The prisoner shook her head, not removing her gaze from Wash as if to say, “Don’t.”
But there was no turning back now.
Trusting his mental countdown, Wash tossed the explosive inside the doro shack.
It landed in the middle of the pile of credit chips, adding an ante to the pot that none of the players wanted. The dog-men froze for a second, and then at once began to bark. They jumped to their feet, but the grenade detonated before any of them could take a step. Shotton and Wash turned away from the blast, remaining hidden behind the shack’s single wall.
Not a full second later the twin booms of two grenades erupting in the last machine gun nest sounded out across the jungle soundtrack. No sooner had that blast subsided than Wash could hear a pained yelping and whining above the din. He turned and saw the doro sentry flailing in free fall from the guard tower. The dog-man hit the ground hard, sending up a cloud of unsettled dust.
Then all hell broke loose. Dog-men pawed for weapons as high-cycle blaster fire from the marines stationed around the base began to rain down, ripping holes in the alien warriors. The doros scrambled frantically, but got cut down the moment they found themselves out in the open.
Wash and Shotton moved at the low, heading toward the impromptu POW holding area. The prisoners were ducked down, as if in some prayer of obeisance, trying to stay low while their confused doro captors snarled and barked threats. One of them, a larger member of the pack, raised its rifle menacingly, its vicious-looking snout curled back to reveal white dripping canines and raw hate foaming along the muzzle. He was going to kill the prisoners.
The doro’s head then simply vanished in a mist of red blood and gray brain matter, fragments of skull and skin plastering the stunned prisoners cowering before him. The electric crack of Parker’s sniper rifle told Wash everything he needed to know as the doro’s headless body fell on the ground and poured out blood.
“Go!” shouted Wash as he and Shotton moved forward. The sniper had saved the prisoners with his first shot, but it would be up to Wash and Shotton to stop the other guards from carrying out the massacre.
They ran hard, raising their rifles and dropping a guard. They turned their rif
les on the two remaining doros, but not before the dog-men opened up with their decrepit-but-far-too-lethal weapons, laying waste to the hapless prisoners in a sudden blur of automatic blaster fire.
“Sons-a—!” shouted Sergeant Shotton, even as he expended a full blaster pack in cutting down the murderous dog-men.
The battle continued on, getting in the way of their progress. A doro appeared from around a corner, snarling and shooting blaster bolts at Wash and Shotton. The two soldiers hit the dirt, rolling to return fire, only to see the dog-man’s chest explode from another of Parker’s shots at distance.
Wash scrambled to his feet, looking in the direction the doro had come from, just in case it had any buddies following. A concussive blast—another grenade—boomed near the building, causing its flimsy wooden reed door to fly open. Inside was another dog-man. It wasn’t armed, but what it was doing was just as dangerous. Coiled over its canine-like ears was a modified comm headset, and the alien was clearly barking frightened messages into a mic.
Nothing good would come of that.
Wash raised his blaster rifle and thumbed the selector to full-cycle fire. He sent bolt after searing blaster bolt into the comm shack, punching holes through the wooden structure, which splintered around the smoking, black-charred rings. The doro danced in a seizure of pain as the bolts tore into it, the comm equipment going up in sparks and flames.
Wash’s charge pack went dry. The comm shack was a ruin.
“We gotta hurry up,” he shouted to Shotton, who was firing on a fleeing doro. “Chances are they’ve called for help.”
They continued on to the site of the slaughter. The blood of the doros mixed freely with that of the butchered army basics, soaking the dry, leafy ground red.
“See if you can get a medic down here,” Wash ordered the sergeant. “And watch for visitors.”
“Rog, Leej,” answered the sergeant.
Order of the Centurion Page 5