Gears of War

by Jason M. Hough

  “You’d think those idiots would have noticed it before they sent her to us.”

  “They did notice,” she said.

  “Oh, did they?” he responded. “And what was their advice on the issue?”

  She shrugged. “They said they only do engines. Venting and airflow design is run from a team at—”

  “‘Not our problem,’ in other words.”

  “Essentially.”

  “Right. I’ll talk to Phillips, see if we can’t sort it out. Thank you, Gian.”

  “What do you want us to do in the meantime?” It was the ship’s pilot, Mendez, who’d been standing silently behind them the whole time. He looked out of his element. Gabe studied the engine for a moment longer, then looked at the two of them in turn.

  “Anything preventing us from tinkering a bit?”

  Gian smiled. Mendez frowned, clearly not pleased with having to deal with all this untested equipment, and clearly aware that “tinkering” was unlikely to make his life any easier.

  “Right,” Gabe said. “Here’s what I want you to do. Go over to the armory, and—”

  “Armory’s under renovation,” Mendez said. “Sir,” he added as an afterthought.

  “I’m well aware of that, sailor. Go over there and talk to the foreman. See if we can ‘borrow’ two sections of metal grid plating. They’re adding a second story and a catwalk over the warehouse floor, so they should have plenty.”

  “Catwalk?”

  “Yes, exactly.” He pointed at the deck hatch that covered the engine bay. “We’ll weld the mesh plates together and replace that hatch with it.”

  “Allowing the excess heat to vent,” Gian said. “Very good, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Except for all the seawater that will get in there if we’re in choppy seas,” she added. He stared at her for a moment, impressed by her forwardness. The military could use more of that, he thought.

  “Mendez,” Gabe said, “when was the last time you had choppy seas in the Lesser Islands?”

  “Calmest waters on Sera, sir,” the man said, though he still sounded dubious. “Long as you stay clear of the north-facing sandbars.”

  “See, Gian? Besides, I’m sure the fine wrenches over at Merrenat want us to test her effectiveness under a flooded-engine-bay scenario.”

  “It is on the list,” Gian agreed, coming around to the idea.

  “Then do it.”

  No one argued this time. Gabe finished inspecting the ship, noticing several new pieces of navigation gear as well, but decided he’d given them enough to think about for one day.

  By the time he left, Gian was already dismantling the hinges on the deck hatch, her face marred by a smear of grease.

  * * *

  The next morning Gabe repeated his running routine. Out past the razor wire, run along the beach, greet the fishermen and long for the simplicity of their lives, then back to the base and his duty.

  When he reached the wall, it was not a patrolling Gear waiting for him, but Captain Phillips.

  She eyed him from the top of the stairs, hands clasped behind her back. As Gabe came up the steps he realized he’d never seen the expression she currently wore. There was a moment, when he came to a stop and held up a hand to catch his breath, that he thought she was going to tell him the war had ended. That the noeighties had got their wish.

  “About time you came back,” Phillips said.

  “What’s happened?”

  “That goddamn Ghost team ran into trouble, and now they need evac.”

  Wyatt… Gabe tried to keep his immediate emotions in check. There were plenty of Gears out there, not just the one he’d grown up with.

  The Captain turned and walked. Gabe fell in beside her.

  “Call came in twenty minutes ago,” she said. “Fucking morons. Coming here and screwing up our stalemate.”

  “What happened?” he repeated, forcing more authority into his voice, despite being outranked.

  Phillips took a deep breath. “That is currently unclear,” she said. “All we know is they’re at Knifespire.”

  “Knifespire? Why?”

  “Classified,” she spat. “But that’s where they are, so that’s where you’re going.”

  Gabe tried to picture the place. In an island chain of unimportant rocks, Knifespire had to be at the bottom of the barrel. It was small, for starters, and the westernmost island in the chain, a full mile away from the next closest piece of land. It had a rocky shore, save for maybe one or two small coves—he couldn’t really remember, never having had reason to study it. The unforgiving shore gave way to a long and narrow span of rocky terrain called Gatka Ridge, which ended in the island’s namesake, Knifespire. A nearly vertical spar of volcanic rock that rose four hundred feet almost straight up, ending in a sharp tip that resembled a dagger.

  It was an unforgiving place. Other than the jungle around Gatka Ridge, nothing much grew there. So what the hell was Special Forces’ interest in it?

  Nothing good, Gabe imagined.

  And now they were in trouble. Which meant…

  “Was the UIR already there?” he asked, leaving the implication unvoiced. If they were, it meant the COG had missed something. That the island wasn’t so useless after all. That meant someone screwed up. Possibly Gabe, if a patrol had failed to spot Gorasni activity.

  Phillips wheeled on him. “Did you miss the part where I said we don’t know anything? I’ll repeat myself if I have to.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Good.” She poked him in the chest with one damned strong finger. “They called for evac, then went silent. That’s all we have to go on. So get out there and bring them home.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I want to make it clear, Diaz, that if we lose a spec-ops team, Vectes is going to be crawling with Ghosts by this time next week, and Hoffman will be with them. That’s the last thing I need.” She didn’t wait for an affirmative this time. She simply turned on her heel and stormed away.

  Gabe frowned inwardly, watching her go. He wondered if he’d ever have a commanding officer who was looking out for something other than their own career.

  “No wonder the pendulum still swings,” he muttered.

  * * *

  He went to the offices for the local Naval Reconnaissance squad first, saluting the staff as he entered. His was a face they’d quickly become accustomed to seeing. Gabe made for the charts room, flipping through the huge papers on the table until he found the one that included Knifespire.

  The map was the same one he’d seen several times before. What interested him now was a filing index written in the corner. Gabe memorized it, then went to the cabinets on the wall and ran his index finger along the dozens of drawers until he found the one he wanted.

  Knifespire’s folder was thin, but it contained what he needed. The latest notes Recon had made in their tireless observations of the whole theater. Short on time, Gabe scanned the most recent report, logged three days ago, looking for anything interesting.

  “Damn,” he said. The effort seemed a waste of time, as all of the entries were marked with a simple NNR—nothing new to report.

  As he closed the folder he noticed one marking, however. Not on Knifespire itself, but the ocean west of it. Gabe studied the comment, and the location, then snapped the folder closed. The tidbit of information might be nothing, but any knowledge was useful knowledge in his view.

  He left, heading for the barracks.

  As he pushed inside, he winced.

  It was like any other morning, of course, but he’d hoped after yesterday’s drill that there’d be a bit more wind in everyone’s sails. Gears and sailors alike were in various states of dress, readiness, even consciousness. Only a few had their uniforms on and were in the process of heading out for duty.

  “LC on deck!” someone shouted. The transformation was instant, and made him proud. Within seconds the disarray had all but vanished, resulting in two neat lines of men and women
on either side of the room, all eyes forward, staring at nothing. Gabe didn’t bother with preliminaries or speeches. They were on the clock now.

  “Mendez, Carter, Finn.”

  The three sailors glanced his way.

  “I want your boats ready to leave in five minutes. Not a drill. Go, and hop to.”

  They stepped out of line, along with their assigned navigators and engineers. The nine sailors rushed past Gabe, no further instructions needed.

  “Gian,” he said as the engineer passed him.

  She stopped and turned, chin lifted in acknowledgment.

  “She ready?”

  “She’s ready, sir, but not tested.”

  “Fair enough. Make me proud.”

  She nodded and left, sprinting now to catch up to her crewmates.

  Gabe turned back to the others. “Blair?” A woman stepped forward, eyes still front. She was the best Gear under his command. Tough, smart, and capable of independent thought. “Get a squad together, whichever Gears have their armor on and their weapons prepped the quickest. Be on the dock in five.”

  “Sir!”

  Gabe turned and left, crossing the yard to his own quarters as the sound of Gears filled the barracks behind him. They were competing to go on the op. He smiled, went inside his room, and pulled his own armor off its stand, determined to be there before any of them.

  As he laced up his combat boots, Gabe found himself at eye-level with a framed photograph on his desk. Three boys stared back at him, ages thirteen, eleven, and eight, respectively. He and his brother Oscar were both smiling. Beside them was the scrawny form of Wyatt Callahan. He hadn’t been smiling that day and Gabe couldn’t remember why. The kid was always worried about trouble of one sort or another. Gabe thought that was probably still the case. The difference now was that Wyatt had figured out how to stay above it.

  Or bury it.

  Gabe hoped he’d get the chance to find out which.

  3: SCABBARD COVE

  “Knifespire?!” Mendez asked. He must have heard the incredulity in his own voice. Before Gabe could react, he added, “Knifespire, yessir.” Then he nudged the navigator, who started pulling up charts.

  “Get us in scope range first,” Gabe ordered. “Need to see what we’re up against before we charge in there.”

  “Are we expecting UIR?”

  “Count on it.”

  They all looked at each other, but no one said anything. Other than the occasional exchange of fire between passing patrol boats, there hadn’t been actual combat in months, much less a casualty. When Gabe looked at Blair she held his gaze, and nodded. Despite the ad hoc way they’d come together, her team would be ready.

  Gabe got on the comm, ordering the other two boats to keep back and await instructions. Manned only with basic crews, they were ready to pick up the stranded Ghost team. That left them more vulnerable to an assault, though.

  “Okay, Pilot, let’s see what this boat can do.”

  Mendez glanced at Gian, who dipped her chin to signal her approval. With that, he yanked the throttle to three quarters, then maximum. The engines roared, all the more thunderous with the improvised mesh plating Gian had welded in place of the usual solid steel hatch.

  A frothy white wake began to trail behind them, as low waves pounded the bow and sprayed up over the sides. Gabe put on his sunglasses to keep the saltwater from his eyes, then removed them as the spray rendered them useless. Stepping into the cabin instead, he stood behind the pilot and navigator, grabbing a handhold as the boat bounced off waves. Her speed continued to build to something damned impressive.

  “Heat looks good!” Gian shouted over the roar.

  Gabe nodded, then tapped Mendez on the shoulder. “Ease off a bit,” he yelled in his ear. “Rather save it for the return leg.”

  “Understood!”

  They raced along the shore of a low, tree-covered island called Adena. A fishing village whisked by, barely visible through the thick jungle. Gabe caught a glimpse of several natives standing along the tree line, half-hidden by ferns, all staring at the boat as it passed. He raised a hand to them, as he always did.

  They ignored his gesture, as they always did.

  Some minutes later the engine note lowered, and not long after that it vanished altogether. They were at the end of Adena Island, and open sea loomed ahead.

  “There it is,” Mendez said, as the roar of the engine was replaced by the gentle lapping of water against the hull of the patrol boat. Knifespire came into view. From this distance, all Gabe could make out was the steep tower of rock from which the place drew its name. Gatka Ridge and the rocky shore were hidden by a dull haze.

  Yet even from this distance he could tell something was wrong. A plume of black smoke curled up into the bright blue sky. Gabe brought up his binoculars.

  “Get me closer.”

  Mendez took the boat to quarter power, and pointed her toward the dark smear on the horizon. Standing at the bow rail, Gabe watched as the island slowly revealed itself. First the trees along the ridge, then the dark wall that was the eastern shore. The face looked impassable, though he noted several places along its mile-long length where scrubs and small trees clung to the surface, hinting at river outlets perhaps. Hidden coves, if they were lucky.

  The lowest parts of Knifespire finally came into view.

  “Fuck,” he whispered.

  Dead center in front of him was the source of the smoke, and it wasn’t coming from the island. It was coming from the unmarked LCU. The ship was already half submerged, and sinking fast. No one was visible in the waters around it, but there was plenty of debris. Smoke obscured much of the immediate area. It was billowing out of the engine room, pushed horizontal by erratic ocean winds that seemed to converge here after being twisted by the sharp peak of the island.

  Just visible behind the plume of smoke, he could see three of the four rafts Wyatt and his compatriots had used yesterday to move cargo. All were beached in a small cove. No sign of Wyatt, though, or any of the other Ghosts.

  “What’s that beach called?” he asked the navigator.

  The man consulted his maps. “Scabbard Cove.”

  Gabe scanned along the island’s length toward the north, then across the waters. About a half-mile from the northernmost edge, two fast-attack frigates sat at anchor under UIR flags. Their guns were trained, as far as Gabe could tell, on the quickly disappearing hull of the LCU.

  “Mendez, take us south by southwest. We’ll keep that smoke between us and them, and get to that beach. Once we reach it, have Carter and Finn follow us on the same course.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Gian?”

  “Sir!”

  “In hindsight, our little vented hatch there is going to leave a nice trail of smoke for the enemy to follow if we push those turbos past their breaking point. See to it that we don’t.”

  “Understood.”

  “Blair, get your team ready. We’re going ashore.”

  “You got it, LC.”

  “All except Davis.”

  Surprised, Blair glanced at him, then at the sniper, who was standing a few feet away and already opening her mouth to argue.

  “Davis,” Gabe said, “you’re on the roof. Anyone comes out of those trees that’s not one of ours, you drop them.”

  The woman glanced at Blair for confirmation. Not of the order itself, Gabe thought, but to make sure this was all really happening. Combat in the islands was rare to the point of being unheard of. Whatever Davis saw in Blair’s expression, it was what she needed. She started to climb onto the roof of the pilot’s cab. It would be just big enough, Gabe thought, for her to lie prone. Shooting from a boat at sea was a skill few snipers had, but he’d made sure all of the sharpshooters at Vectes trained for it.

  The rest of the Gears aligned themselves along the edges of the patrol boat, ready to enter the waves at his command.

  When they were three hundred yards from shore, the UIR frigates opened fire. A screeching sh
ell sailed overhead, followed by a plume of water thirty feet high. A full second later they heard the delayed booming sound of the shots being fired.

  “So much for the cover of smoke,” Gabe said to himself. “Full power, Mendez!”

  “Aye!”

  The engines roared to life, as did the newly fitted turbos, adding a high-pitched wheeze to the deep note of the diesels. The boat sprang to life, riding up on the chop and leaving white spray in its wake. More artillery shells were launched by the two distant frigates, who’d fired that first salvo to get their sights in. They would soon lose their prey in the uneven shoreline of the island. It would take them a while to pull up anchor and come around to the eastern side, and by then Gabe intended to be long gone.

  Two more shells hit the water. This time both had the right range, but the wrong angle. Spouts of water erupted in the patrol boat’s wake, twenty yards behind them.

  “Their targeting solution is based on the old engine,” Gian said, a satisfied grin creeping onto her features. Gabe nodded. It was true, and he’d counted on it. The question was, how long until they figured it out?

  The next shot was closer, and the one after that was near enough to spray them all with water and set their ears ringing with the shockwave. But it was the last chance the frigate would have until it moved. The two UIR boats vanished behind Knifespire’s jagged shore. The last glimpse Gabe had was of one of them coming about.

  “We don’t have much time,” he said.

  “And our two reserve craft, the empty ones, don’t have those new turbos,” Mendez observed.

  “But the enemy doesn’t know that.”

  “Good point, sir.”

  “Get them moving now,” Gabe said. “West first, then come up from the south. Meet us at the tip.”

  The pilot didn’t seem happy about it, but got on the comm all the same, repeating the plan to Carter and Finn, his counterparts in the other two craft.

  That done, Mendez put his focus on guiding his boat into Scabbard Cove, which now dominated their view and grew larger by the second. The beach itself was only forty or fifty feet across, Gabe estimated, and there were hints of coral outcrops under the waves, but the navigator knew his stuff. He conferred in quiet, confident tones with Mendez as they raced toward the shoreline. The pilot kept the throttle at maximum the whole way, as Gian monitored the laboring engines, her face pinched with worry but, as of yet, no more than that.