Gears of War

by Jason M. Hough

  “Under. Any. Circumstances.”

  Hoffman stood there, shaking his head.

  “Pardon me, sir?” Gabe asked, ignoring the sudden glare of pure annoyance Phillips shot at him.

  “Yes, Lieutenant Colonel?”

  “Maybe if you told us what was going on out there, we might be able to help?”

  “Do you have a top-secret clearance?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why are you even in this room?”

  “Because we rescued your men, and we know these islands better than you do. Because—”

  “That’ll be quite enough, Lieutenant Colonel,” Phillips snapped. “Dismissed.”

  Gabe felt his mouth curl into a snarl and couldn’t stop it. He wanted to speak, to help fix this mess because he knew he could.

  “As usual,” he said under his breath, walking to the door, “regs and ranks instead of results.”

  “You’re confined to quarters for that, Diaz!” Phillips shouted at his back.

  “Diaz?” Hoffman said. “Just a second there, Lieutenant Colonel.”

  Gabe stopped, back still to the room.

  “You’re Gabriel Diaz,” the commander said. “I met your brother, Oscar.”

  Gabe closed his eyes. He really, really didn’t need this now.

  “Hell of a man, Oscar Diaz.”

  “No argument there,” Gabe said.

  “One of the finest soldiers I’ve had the pleasure to meet, in fact. Listens. Does what he’s told. Has respect for authority.”

  Gabe had thought that by coming to the Lesser Islands he might avoid this comparison, but it always seemed to catch up to him. Oscar was two things Gabe would never be: at once the model soldier and, somehow, the life of the party as well. Everyone liked Oscar. Well, almost.

  “But,” Hoffman said, and his tone changed. Thoughtful instead of condescending. “Maybe you’re right about something. Oscar… he’s the type who does what he’s asked, but I don’t know if I’d ever say he got results.”

  Gabe waited.

  “Doing what you’re asked and getting results… those aren’t really the same thing, are they?” Hoffman stepped to Gabe’s side, studying his profile. He stood there for some time, and Gabe decided it was best not to say anything. The man was in the process of changing his mind, and sometimes that was harder than turning a battleship around.

  “What the hell,” Hoffman said. “Let’s get some results, shall we? The status-quo here is going to change, Captain Phillips. It starts with Knifespire, but that’s only the first phase of the plan. You and I will talk about that later.”

  Phillips only nodded, stunned by the implications of his words. So Hoffman went on.

  “Right now Knifespire is the priority. Wyatt, explain to them what’s going on so we can fix this mess.”

  Gabe had a strong desire to resume the march of shame to his quarters, to force Phillips to call him back and rescind her punishment, but that went against the whole point of what Hoffman had just said. So he assumed her order had been discarded, and turned back to the room. Her glare told him maybe he was wrong. Then she shifted it to Wyatt, and waited to hear what the Ghost had to say.

  “We were tasked with installing a new long-range antenna and comms array on Knifespire. Its tech is more advanced than anything the UIR possesses, and we need to keep it that way.”

  “Why there?” Phillips asked.

  “It was the only place that met our requirements. Far enough from the other islands that signals aren’t impeded, and worthless enough that—we’d hoped anyway—no one would come sniffing around there, and find it.”

  “I would have thought you’d see a long-range dish from miles away,” Gabe said.

  Wyatt shook his head. “This is new equipment, highly classified. Compact, no bigger than one of our rafts. And though an island chain between it and the enemy would eliminate its effectiveness, a single wall of rock wouldn’t.”

  “Knifespire,” Gabe muttered.

  “The peak has a cavern, it’s like a cathedral. That rock is tall and partly hollow. We figured we could place the listening post on a ledge high up, and acquire sig-int from Gorasnaya for years, right from under their noses.”

  “Years,” Gabe laughed. An involuntary outburst, which he tried to turn into a cough, but failed miserably. The others all looked at him.

  “Something amusing about that, Lieutenant Colonel Diaz?” Phillips asked.

  Gabe shrugged. “No eighty,” he said. At Hoffman’s and Wyatt’s puzzled looks he explained. “You’ll see it all over the place. It’s spreading like wildfire through the base personnel. Maybe elsewhere, too. It’s a mantra, of sorts. No eightieth year of war, one way or another. That’s how it was explained to me.”

  To his surprise, Hoffman said, “Can’t blame people for wanting an end to the conflict, after all this time. When a war goes on this long, you get a generation of people who know nothing else. Take us four. War’s all we know. Personally, I think spreading the idea—that it’s possible to have something else—isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

  Hoffman glanced down at the floor, then.

  “’Course, I suppose there are those who, since they know nothing else, would rather continue indefinitely. It is, after all, their entire lives.”

  “That’s true,” Gabe said. “Sorry, I just found it a little amusing when Wyatt said ‘years.’ It just highlights reality and wishful thinking, and how far apart they really are.” At that an awkward silence fell across the room. Wyatt cleared his throat. Phillips shifted in her chair, and Gabe wondered if she fell into the second group Hoffman had described.

  “Well, let’s focus on the immediate problem,” the Colonel said, “before we discuss how to stop the pendulum from swinging. Bottom line is, we’ve got some sensitive equipment on that island that we’d prefer the UIR did not get their hands on.”

  “Isn’t it a bit late for that?” Gabe asked. “Pardon me, sir, but they were all over that island when we left. It must be halfway to Gorasnaya by now.” Wyatt cleared his throat again.

  “Then we have to hit them en route. Call for air support.”

  “That’s going to create a real mess,” Phillips said. Despite everything, she was still trying to maintain the stalemate. “Even if we use aircraft, they’d be nearing port by the time we got there. That’s an escalation we don’t have the resources to handle.”

  Wyatt cleared his throat. It was the third time he’d done so, Gabe realized. Hoffman noticed it, too, and gestured, giving him the floor.

  “It’s possible,” Wyatt said, “maybe even likely, that they haven’t even entered the spire yet.”

  “Oh?” Hoffman asked. “Explain.”

  There was that glint in Wyatt’s eye. Gabe knew it all too well. He’d seen it countless times when they were at the orphanage, usually when they sprung a trap on the bullies that made his life such a living hell. Though often successful, the traps would invariably lead to an escalation.

  “We, ah, appropriated a large number of air tanks from the warehouse here, along with some paint, and took them with us. The first thing anyone will see on walking into that cavern is a big pile of metal cylinders with chemical waste warnings all over them.” Wyatt grinned.

  Hoffman’s face remained impassive, but it was a posture Gabe also knew well, because he did it all the time himself. That dilemma of being impressed by someone, but not wanting to show it.

  “Then maybe we do have a chance,” the Colonel said. His voice shifted then. “Conversation over.” It was the voice of a leader giving orders. “Phillips, do what you’ve got to do. Under no circumstances should the enemy get their hands on that antenna.”

  She stood, and saluted. “We’ll see to it, sir.”

  “Good. I’ll get out of your hair then, but keep me apprised.” He turned to go, but Phillips stopped him.

  “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking… you must have already been on the way here when this happened. Was there some other purpo
se to this visit?”

  “Surprise inspection.” Then he added, “Relax, not of Vectes. I wanted to see how Deevers and his Ghosts got on with this task. And make sure the new antenna works as promised. Instead, Deevers is lost at sea, and my commandos have made a mess of things.” With a thumb he gestured toward Wyatt. “So I guess I’ll get to see if you’re able to handle cleanup.”

  “We’ll try,” she said.

  “Of course you’ll fucking try,” he growled. “That’s the journey. All I care about is the goal.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hoffman left, his boots stomping off down the hall, beyond the door, and out into the shipyard. Phillips waited until the sound had completely vanished before speaking again.

  “I want a plan on my desk in an hour,” she said to Gabe.

  Wyatt scoffed. “That’s an hour wasted.”

  “You’ll remain quiet, Ghost. In fact, you’re dismissed. If Lieutenant Colonel Diaz needs you for this effort, he’ll let you know.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Wyatt said. All the respect he’d shown Hoffman had drained away. With that he spun on his heel, sparing not even a glance for his brother, and strode from the room.

  “I think we’re done here, Diaz,” Phillips said. “Get me a plan. One hour.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He saluted and left.

  Outside, there was no sign of Wyatt. Gabe considered going to find him. To collaborate on a plan as they had so many times before, faced with a whole school of older opponents out to get them. But then, Wyatt had never really contributed to those plans. Mostly he ignored them, or tried to steer Gabe and Oscar into something overly cruel or downright evil. Left to his own devices, Gabe feared what Wyatt might be capable of doing. He supposed that was why he and Oscar had kept the kid so close. A tight leash, as it were.

  Problem was, Gabe wasn’t the one holding that leash any longer. So he put his brother out of his mind, and went to work on the plan. In his office he went to his desk and shoved aside all the reports and forms awaiting his attention. Then he took down the map of the Lesser Islands that hung on his wall, and spread it across the surface.

  When he sat down, his office chair creaked in complaint—something that always annoyed him, and yet for some reason he never found time to fix.

  As usual, he ignored it.

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later he was back in Phillips’s office, standing in front of her desk, hands clasped behind his back.

  Her eyes moved rapidly left and right as she read. She scanned the document twice, stopping only to refer to a map she’d placed on the desk beside her, and then once more to look up something in a binder she kept in a drawer.

  Gabe waited, once again studying the crack on the wall just above her head. He was expecting questions or criticisms. What he got instead was the sight of his captain taking a red pen from a mug on her desk and rather savagely crossing out several lines and words. She handed it back to him almost casually.

  “Other than those things, I approve.”

  Gabe felt an anger well in him as he scanned her deletions.

  “The plan doesn’t work without them.”

  “I think it will.”

  “Ma’am,” he said, tamping down his frustration. “That spec-ops team is highly trained, and they see a lot more fighting on land than we do. This sort of thing is what they know.”

  “And they’ve already botched it once,” she shot back. “They stay. This is our problem now. We do it our way. ’Bout time they understood they’re not the only ones who can accomplish something.”

  Jaw clenched, Gabe fashioned and then discarded another half-dozen arguments against her stubbornness. He saw it for what it was, and knew she wouldn’t back down. This was her chance to show the admirals that she could succeed where Special Forces could not. That narrative would be soured if it was a joint operation.

  “May I borrow your pen?” he asked, holding out a hand.

  Puzzled, Phillips gave it to him. She watched as Gabe crossed out a single item and wrote just above it. He handed the sheet back. She looked at his change.

  Her face darkened.

  “Too risky,” she said. “That’s a lot of firepower for people not trained to use it.”

  “It’s the only way I can make this work, if we’re doing it ourselves.”

  “Too risky,” she repeated.

  “It’s risky either way. This option is risk with a chance—a small chance—of success.”

  Frowning, she remained silent for several long seconds, but in the end she picked up the stamp from her desk and slammed it down on the top-right corner.

  APPROVED

  “Don’t let me down, Diaz.”

  He took the page, folded it up, and slipped it into a pocket, knowing it would never see the light of day again.

  Once outside, he went straight to the tent where Wyatt and the rest of the Ghosts waited.

  “When do we leave?” Wyatt asked.

  “You’re staying here.”

  Wyatt exploded. A stream of barely coherent swearing. The other Ghosts behind him looked ready to take up arms. Gabe held up a hand, waiting for his brother to blow off steam.

  “Look, I don’t like it either, but that’s how it’s going to be.”

  “No offense, brother, but your people aren’t up to this. You need us.”

  “What I need,” Gabe said, “is to borrow something. You took our air tanks, now we need a few things from you.”

  “Like what?”

  Gabe told him.

  “You’re fucking crazy.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “I could make you get Hoffman to approve that request.”

  “You could.” Gabe nodded. “And he would. You know he would. So let’s just cut out that part so I can get underway.”

  It took nearly five minutes for Wyatt to gather the requested items from his team, who were very reluctant to give the equipment up. Once again Gabe had the strong sense that, had they sent anyone else but Wyatt on this mission, things might be going very differently right now. But Gabe had a currency of sorts. This was his brother. Gabe had practically raised him.

  The explosives and other equipment went into a crate, which Gabe carried across the base to the dock. He left it there—under guard—and went to gather his sailors and Gears.

  A lot more of them, this time.

  5: CANDLE IN THE DARK

  The group of patrol boats pushed north for hours, into the warmer waters of the central Lesser Islands. They gathered in the shadow of Adena Island, half a mile from shore. Imposing jungle dominated the sparsely populated place. The lone fishing village was dark, as was the islanders’ way. A neutral people caught up in the greater war, they kept to a blackout, so as not to provide a navigational aid to either side. Other than the gentle sway of palm trees, nothing moved.

  Gabe Diaz checked his watch. 25:59.

  “Set off at midnight?” Mendez asked.

  “No. We wait until seven minutes after.”

  “It’d be easier to coordinate with an even number.” The pilot sounded annoyed, and rightfully so. Gabe had interrupted their dinner, and other than naps grabbed on the way out here, none of them would get any sleep tonight.

  It was a state of mind, he thought, that flowed down from Phillips to the rest of the base. Complacency. The stalemate that had settled over the Lesser Islands was good enough, since the islands were essentially worthless. Hoffman had hinted at changes to come, though. Someday, maybe, the COG would need the UIR Imulsion rig at the north end. Or the UIR would want to take Vectes so they could refuel submarines there. Until either of those happened, Phillips—like her predecessor—seemed perfectly happy with the dividing line at the center of the chain. A line on a map, nothing more.

  One that cut right across Knifespire.

  “That’s exactly why we don’t go at the hour,” Gabe said. “If it makes sense to do it on the hour, then that’s when they’ll be expecting it.”

&n
bsp; “What makes no sense, if I may say so, sir, is attacking a rocky shore like that in the dead of night.”

  “Same principle applies,” Gabe replied. “Sometimes the best way to outsmart someone is to do the stupid thing.”

  “You said it, sir. Not me.”

  “So I did. Get me comms with the other squad leaders, will you?”

  Mendez tapped at the console for a moment, then nodded at Gabe, who activated his transmitter.

  “Listen up,” he said. “I know this op is risky, but that’s what we all signed up for. Time isn’t on our side here. Each of you carries a pair of night-vision goggles grudgingly supplied to us by the Ghosts we rescued yesterday. They’re state of the art. I’ll leave it up to you how best to use them. It’s going to be dark on Knifespire, and that’s an advantage we need to keep as long as possible.

  “Our primary objective is the spire itself,” he continued. “More specifically, a cave called Cathedral, located at its base. The only approach is via Gatka Ridge, and without doubt the enemy will have that well-guarded.”

  “Why aren’t the Ghosts handling this themselves?” someone asked. Gabe didn’t bother to ask who, it was a good question.

  “We pulled them off this island once already. They were ambushed, and they didn’t come here with the equipment or firepower to handle an enemy force this big. They were here to install some tech, then vanish. Nothing more. Plus they lost their LCU and all hands onboard.”

  “Sir, it still seems—”

  “I don’t care what it seems,” he said tersely. “Command handed this responsibility to us, and to be honest I think they just see us as cannon fodder that will buy time until a full platoon can arrive. Let’s prove them wrong.”

  This got a chorus of agreement. Playing up rivalries was a tried-and-true technique that Gabe normally preferred not to employ, but time was getting away from him.

  Their fleet had six boats, with the other ten waiting back at Vectes, ready to launch within minutes of being called upon. Phillips made it very clear that Gabe wouldn’t need them. She probably had a number on a piece of paper, too, with the label “acceptable losses” next to it.