At the last second Mendez turned them hard to port, sending up a massive spray of water. In the same instant he killed the engine. This was as close as they were going to get.
No one needed any further prompt. Blair leapt over the side, and each of her Gears followed. One after another they vaulted the guardrail, splashing into waist-high water. Soon they were wading toward shore, Lancers held above their heads.
As Gabe made to leap the railing, Davis’s Longshot let out a crack of thunder from the roof of the cabin. The sound echoed through the trees, sending hundreds of birds up into the clear blue sky. Gabe didn’t bother to look for her target. He hopped the railing and braced himself for the water below. It was always colder than he expected.
Today was no different.
The initial shock was the least of his concerns, though. Gunfire erupted from the tree line.
Gabe scanned the beach and finally saw what he’d come to find. Six or seven of the Coalition Ghosts had taken cover behind a large piece of driftwood on the beach. The tree was an old palm, barely two feet high at its widest point, which meant the Gears had to lie prone just to get any protection from it. Even from a distance Gabe could see the trunk splintering under the hail of gunfire coming from the trees.
Davis fired again, and again, despite no visible UIR. She’d be aiming at their muzzle flashes, he thought, likely with only minimal effect. What she did accomplish, though, was a redirection of fire toward the patrol boat.
Mendez wasted no time reacting. As Gabe pushed through the waves he heard the engines come up again, and then the sound of the deck gun as the navigator, or Gian, began to hose down that tree line with machine-gun fire.
Blair and her Gears reached the fallen tree where the spec-ops team was pinned down, taking positions wherever they could, their Lancers resting on the trunk. They added to the barrage the Righteous was laying down.
Gabe came ashore last, spotted Wyatt among the survivors, and took a knee next to him.
“Thanks for coming,” his brother said.
“Save it for later. Sit rep?!”
Wyatt grimaced. “Didn’t think we’d get their attention at all, much less that fast.”
“They were waiting here for you?”
“No,” he admitted, then ducked reflexively as a bullet cracked into the trunk just inches from his head. “We landed, got about halfway through our op, and were coming back to the beach for more equipment when they fell on us.”
“How many?”
“A whole platoon landed. We thinned them out, but there’s a good fifteen or twenty left.”
“Wounded?”
“None that I’m aware of.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Not sure about the others. We split up when the Vigil was hit.” Meaning the LCU, Gabe realized.
“Comms?”
Wyatt hesitated. “We maintain silence in this kind of scenario.”
“Well, fuck that,” Gabe growled. “Raise the others and tell them to head to the southernmost tip. We’ve got two more boats coming in with room to carry them, but those frigates are going to make it complicated if we don’t hurry.”
Reluctantly, Wyatt nodded.
“The rest of you get ready to move!” he called out down the line. And he realized then that only his people were shooting. The Ghosts were all still behind the log. Then he understood why.
“Share ammo, Blair!”
She nodded, gestured to her Gears. They started passing extra magazines to the Ghosts. Gabe handed a spare of his own to Wyatt.
“You want to take point?”
Wyatt looked at him, then nodded. It was a kindness to be offered the lead, helping him save face with his squad, and Gabe knew the look well. Wyatt slapped the mag into his Lancer. He took one more look over the log before, without a word, he raced off in a crouched run toward the southern edge of the beach. There was a spot where trees and rock converged, and Gabe thought he could just see the hint of a trail between the two.
The rest of Wyatt’s squad followed in a staggered pattern, so that one was always covering their movement by watching the trees.
One of the men, halfway to the trail, fell face first into the sand. Gabe had seen that lifeless flop before, and knew instantly the man would never get back up. The last of Wyatt’s Ghosts grabbed his fallen comrade by the collar and dragged him the rest of the way.
“Let’s move,” Gabe shouted to Blair.
She nodded. “Blue squad, with me!”
Their technique was different, all moving at once, turned sideways so that all could shoot at any threat that dared to poke out of the enemy position. They made it without any further losses, but at the cost of a lot of ammo.
“We need to get the hell out of here, and fast,” Blair said when Gabe reached the trailhead. He clapped her on the shoulder.
“Wyatt, any word from your other squads?”
“Affirmative, they’re headed to the rendezvous.”
“Let’s move then.”
Wyatt seemed to hesitate, his eyes facing the other way. North. Gabe turned and followed his gaze. The dark, jagged peak of Knifespire jutted above the thin jungle, three-quarters of a mile away, at the far end of Gatka Ridge.
“I don’t like that look, Wyatt.”
The man ignored him for a few seconds, then finally broke from his reverie and turned south. Without a word, he was off, his squad following in their silent way.
Gabe looked at Blair. “Take point, I’ll bring up the rear—”
An explosion shook the beach, just twenty yards away. Sand and dirt sprayed against Gabe’s armor. Harmless, but that was going to change. The frigates were on the move, and finally had a view of the cove.
“GO!” Gabe roared.
Everyone ran. The trail was narrow, in places barely wide enough for one person. Vines covered the ground, half-obscured by dirt and fallen palm fronds, which were brittle as bone and made a hell of a noise when stepped on. To Gabe’s right was what felt like an impenetrable wall of jungle. On his left, a natural wall of jagged rock, about waist high at best, with crashing waves beyond and below, ten or twenty feet down.
The next shell from the lead frigate hit this wall of rock. The ground beneath Gabe’s feet shook and his toe snagged on a vine. He went down, managed to turn it into an awkward roll, and came up running.
A great cracking sound rumbled up through the earth. Gabe glanced back and saw two things in quick succession. The trail behind him was starting to shift and crack. And UIR soldiers were on that trail, a hundred feet off, but closing. He met the eyes of the closest one, a tall man with deeply tanned skin and a clean-shaven head.
Gabe slowed and lifted his Lancer. The other man did the same with his Markza. Before either could shoot, though, the land between them suddenly collapsed. The shell from the frigate’s deck gun had weakened the cliff. A section of rock wall fell away, and behind it a twenty-foot-wide and fifty-foot-long stretch of dirt and rubble poured into the ocean.
Gabe stumbled, backpedaling quickly to stable ground as the dirt beneath his boots slid in to fill the void left by the earthslide.
The UIR man—an officer, Gabe realized—had been closer to the collapsed section. He was on the ground, one leg over the edge of the newly formed ravine, and had lost his rifle.
Gabe lifted his Lancer and took aim. As he squeezed the trigger another artillery shell slammed into the gap between them, throwing up a huge gout of flame and earthen debris. He stumbled again, backward.
As he got to his feet he caught the gaze of the UIR officer. He was kneeling, facing away from Gabe but looking back over a shoulder that had a growing stain of blood seeping into his undershirt. Gabe considered firing again, but at that instant the jungle on the other side of the ravine exploded. He turned away, and ran.
Blair and the others were waiting for him a hundred feet down the trail, discussing whether or not they should go back for him when he finally emerged from the foliage.
“In the future, I vote going back for me,” he said to their relieved expressions.
“Wasn’t a question of if,” Blair said. “Just who.”
Gabe nodded, grateful, and then gestured for them to keep moving. They were a distance off the rocky seawall now, but soon the frigates were likely to grow impatient and just start shelling the whole area in hopes of a lucky shot.
They continued at a jog as the terrain became even more wild and treacherous. Eventually, though, they reached a scrape of flat land with almost no foliage at all. A natural clearing with a huge termite mound in the center, crawling with insects.
“Ocean,” Blair said. “Through the trees on three sides. We’re close.” She skirted the edge of the clearing, instinctively staying well away from the ten-foot-high hotel for bugs. Another stretch of trees quickly gave way to a narrow beach. Wyatt and his team were there, as were the three patrol boats. One had already been loaded with the missing second group of Ghosts.
Blair broke into a run, Blue Squad following suit. From the rear, Gabe twirled a hand above his head, telling Mendez and the other pilots to get moving.
Wyatt waited for Gabe.
“We left some equipment behind.”
“Forget it.” Gabe pushed the younger man toward a boat.
Wyatt seemed about to argue, but let it go.
“Hoffman will be pissed.”
“Everyone’s going to be pissed if we don’t get out of here before those frigates spot us. Now move!”
Wyatt hesitated a moment longer, his gaze once again on the distant shard of rock that dominated the island.
“Take us west,” Gabe told Mendez as soon as he was aboard.
“West is open ocean!”
“Trust me,” Gabe snapped, turning and pushing binoculars to his face. Mendez didn’t reply to the order, at least not verbally. Just a few seconds later they were underway, matching speed with the two companion boats and heading due west.
It was the first time Gabe had ever seen the western shore of Knifespire, and it was, in his estimation, the same as the eastern side, just with slightly more sand and slightly less rock, no doubt due to the constant pounding of the ocean waves.
“Slow a bit,” Gabe said.
“Slow?!” Mendez asked incredulously. “Their guns—”
“We need them to follow. Stay just out of range.”
Gabe, still looking through the binoculars, felt a presence at his left elbow.
“Sir,” Mendez said in a low voice, “with all due respect, we’re easy targets out here. We should be going southeast. Hug the shore of that fishing island.”
“It’s called Adena,” the navigator said.
“Yeah, Adena. Hug the shore, then lose them in the chain.”
“We could make it,” Gabe agreed, “but the other two boats won’t, not once those frigates get up to full speed.”
“How’s it any different out here, though?” The man’s growing anger crept into his voice, and Gabe was forced to pull the binoculars from his eyes and glance at him. He saw the frustration there, and understood it. Following orders on incomplete information was a part of all their jobs, but that never made it easy. Gabe glanced at the navigator.
“Take a look at your chart, and what’s in front of us.”
Curious, Mendez joined his navigator at the chart table. Gabe went back to watching the enemy ships as they came into view and pursued.
“There’s nothing in front of us,” Mendez said.
“Not true,” Gabe said. “I read Recon’s latest report this morning. One of their scouts spotted a sandbar that isn’t on the charts.”
“A sandbar?” Mendez asked. “Really?”
Gabe handed him the binoculars. “See for yourself.”
“Holy shit. I see it. Damn, had no idea.”
“No reason to. No one comes out this way. My hope is that the UIR don’t have it on their maps, either.” The alternative, Gabe knew, was death. If Gorasni recon was as thorough as the COG’s, the whole plan was futile. They’d just skirt the underwater hill and catch up to the three smaller boats, sinking them at their leisure.
The waves became taller with each passing second, and by the time they crossed over the sandbar the patrollers were bouncing off whitecaps and slamming into the troughs with brutal regularity. There was a flash from one of the frigates’ guns. A spray of white water shot up into the air sixty or seventy feet astern.
“Going to be close,” Blair said. She sounded as helpless as Gabe felt. Another blast cut that distance in half. The next was close enough to rock the boat and send them all crouching to the deck.
“C’mon, c’mon!”
A fourth blast had the right range, but missed to the left thanks to a sudden change in heading by Mendez. Gabe felt the heat of the blast on his cheek.
And then, despite the distance between them, he heard the first frigate hit the sandbar. A brutal scraping sound, muted by the sea. The ship came to an abrupt stop. Gabe could picture the sailors aboard being thrown against walls and bulkheads. Some might have even gone overboard.
The second frigate tried to turn, but had been following her sister ship too closely. The sound of the impact wasn’t as great this time, but it was still there.
“Now south, Mendez,” Gabe said. “Get us the hell out of here.”
“With pleasure, sir.”
4: DEBRIEF
“After we beached the two enemy frigates—” Gabe said, nearing the end of his statement.
Captain Phillips still eyed him with her unblinking, indifferent stare. Gabe swallowed, and went on.
“—we made for Adena, the next island south of—”
“I know the map, Diaz.”
He nodded. “We waited there and watched the two ships for approximately two hours. One managed to free itself, but the other required a tug, which took some time to arrive.”
“And they limped back to Gorasnaya?”
“That’s the thing, ma’am. They didn’t.”
She tilted her head slightly, waiting for him to explain. They were in her office. Phillips at her desk, Wyatt and Gabe in the center of the room, facing her. The extra chairs had been conveniently moved to either side of her, forcing them to stand. A little technique she used when she wanted to impress her rank on others.
As Gabe had done several times before when meeting with Phillips in less-than-ideal circumstances, he kept his gaze carefully aimed at a foot-long crack in the wall behind her, rather than on her face. The crack in the wall was so well known to Gabe, in fact, that he thought he knew it better than the Lesser Islands themselves. He certainly knew it better than he knew Phillips.
He picked his words carefully.
“The enemy frigates remained at Knifespire.” As an afterthought, he added, “At least, as far as we could tell. Didn’t wait around to be entirely sure, but from everything I saw… in my opinion, they’re staying put.”
The Captain’s gaze swung, ever so slowly, over to Wyatt. If Gabe’s brother felt any intimidation, he hid it very well. Despite standing at attention, Wyatt somehow managed to be casual about it. Just this side of disrespectful, Gabe thought. It was a fine line to straddle, and a dangerous one at that.
“Any idea why two UIR warships, and a full squad of soldiers, would be so interested in that desolate nothing of a rock?”
Wyatt sighed, which he turned into a shrug. “They’re interested because we’re interested. If they hadn’t been so damned lucky in spotting us as we made shore, they’d have no reason to be there at all.”
“But surely,” Phillips replied, “once they realize that there’s nothing at all of strategic value on Knifespire, they’ll clear out and fuck off back to their base, far to the north. Yes?”
“Not my place to say.” Another shrug. “Ma’am.” He tacked the last word on.
“I can answer that,” a new voice said.
Wyatt had gone abruptly rigid, Gabe realized.
At the same instant, Captain Phillips’s ch
air scraped back as she, too, came to attention. Gabe knew when to be curious and when to respect rank. Instead of looking, he faced forward and kept his eyes on that crack in the wall.
“Colonel Hoffman,” Phillips said, “what a pleasant surprise.”
“At ease, all of you.” The man in charge of COG Special Forces stepped into the room, coming to stand between Wyatt and Gabe.
“Sir,” Wyatt started, “we need to talk—”
“Later,” Hoffman snapped, the word sharp enough to get anyone—even Wyatt—to clap his mouth shut. The Colonel turned to Phillips. “We’ve got a major fucking problem here, Captain.”
She lifted her chin. “The loss of life is awful. No one ever wants to lose a ship, and all hands aboard, but we did manage to rescue a significant number—”
“That is not what I am referring to.”
Phillips went silent, her face paling slightly, which for some reason worried Gabe more than anything that had yet happened that day. Still pinning the Captain with his glare, Hoffman spoke to Wyatt.
“Did we lose the equipment?”
“Yes, sir,” Wyatt admitted. “No time to rig charges.”
“You’re supposed to do that first.”
“There wasn’t time.”
“Are you saying the UIR were waiting for you?”
“No, but they were quick. The instant they saw us they came in hard, from three sides. Sank the Vigil in one damned lucky shot. Troops coming up from the north shore, and the west. I… had to order a retreat.”
“And what orders had Deevers given you, before he went down on the Vigil?”
Wyatt hesitated. Then he spoke in the kind of voice only a very, very well-trained soldier could muster, when faced with responsibility for the deaths of others.
“We were to set up the… equipment… without enemy or friendly knowledge, and not let it fall into UIR hands under any circumstances.”
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