The Gears were readying weapons, too.
Gabe turned, saw figures moving in the trees, just hidden in the last dregs of fog. Then one emerged.
“Hold fire,” he said to Blair.
Gian stumbled out of the trees, holding her arm. Her uniform had burned away there, up to the elbow, and the skin was badly singed. A gash across her forehead streaked blood down her face. Judging from the way it smeared across her brow and cheeks, she’d tried and failed to swipe it away.
He ran to her, caught her as she tripped. The woman cried out when he gripped her left arm to hold her up. Instantly he shifted his leverage to her right arm, which he pulled over his own shoulder.
“The roof came down on us,” she said, almost as if to herself. There was a distance, and a disbelief, in her tone.
“Is anyone else alive back there?”
Gian shook her head, though there was little conviction in it. “I snuck away,” she said. “They were… they were bayoneting anyone who was still moving. Anyone not crushed.”
“Mendez?”
Without looking at him, she shook her head. Mendez was gone.
A rage boiled up in Gabe, but he battled it back. Revenge wouldn’t matter if he lost any more of his division today. He thought of asking her about the antenna, but could see the dazed look in her eyes and decided not to press. Her answer wouldn’t change anything, anyway. It was time to leave.
“Let’s get you to a boat. Take care of those burns.”
Somehow she managed to nod. Somehow she still put one foot in front of the other.
* * *
When Gabe finally crawled over the gunwale of the last patrol boat, he was greeted by Wyatt’s frowning face.
“The hell are you doing here?” Gabe said, and despite everything that had happened he found himself grinning.
“Got your signal,” his brother said.
“There, see, Gian?” Gabe said to the wounded engineer. “Told you it would work.”
“You never said it would work,” she replied, wincing as someone pressed a burn pad to her arm. Gabe nodded at her, conceding the point. He forced the smile from his face, too, upon realizing how it must make her feel. She’d just lost her pilot, Mendez, along with many others. Her signal may have worked, but an awful price had still been paid.
Gabe looked back to his brother.
“Was sort of hoping you’d bring the cavalry.”
“Phillips ordered us to stay put until you’d officially missed your return window. Said the distress call was an Indie trap.”
“You disobeyed a direct order?”
“Unless it comes from Hoffman, I usually do—and even when it does, I’ve gotten pretty good at creative interpretation.”
“You’ve always been good at that.”
“That’s the difference between me and Oscar. I was always an ‘ask for forgiveness’ kind of guy.”
“Funny. I don’t remember you ever asking for forgiveness. Or anything else, for that matter.”
“I’m saving up. Anyway, you rescued us last time. Me and my Ghosts figured it was time to return the favor.” Then he glanced up at the island, specifically the spire at the north end. “We can’t leave just yet, though. What’s the status in that cave?”
He meant, of course, the secret antenna.
Gabe looked to Gian, who stared back at him blankly for several seconds. Then it was as if a light had been turned on behind her eyes, as she suddenly realized what Wyatt was asking. Numbly, she pulled a small device from her shirt pocket, stared at it for a moment, then flipped the safety cover up, revealing its single red button.
Closing her eyes, she pressed it.
There was a deep whump sound from the north. Seconds later, smoke began to billow out of Knifespire.
“That’s the status in that fucking cave,” the woman muttered.
Gabe eyed his brother. “Mission accomplished?”
Wyatt nodded. “Good enough for me. Well done.”
Suddenly exhausted, Gabe lowered himself to the deck and leaned back. He rapped his fist against the hull.
“Take us home,” he said.
The boat’s engines thrummed to life, and they started to power through the waves.
9: AN ALTERNATIVE TO THINKING
Right away Gabe knew there was a problem.
A part of him—a large part—wanted to pretend the sputtering coughs from the big diesel engine weren’t happening. As if by sheer force of imagination he could make the problem go away.
“Something’s wrong,” the pilot said.
“Now what?”
Wyatt went to the console and stood behind the man, studying the instrument panel. After a quick glance he turned and ran aft, dodging the resting and wounded Gears who were sprawled out on the deck, and looked into the water behind them.
“We’re leaking oil. Or fuel. Maybe both.”
“Took a lot of fire from the enemy buses,” the navigator said. “Would’ve been a lot worse without the fog.”
The vibration from the engine faltered. “Ease off,” Gabe said to the pilot. The man had a hand over his ear, listening.
“CNV Domino took a hit to the engine as well, and CNV Mighty is taking on water.”
All three rescue boats were in trouble.
“Anyone else starting to think that island is cursed?” someone asked.
“Quiet, everyone. I need to think,” Gabe said. “Pilot, ease off.”
The pilot’s hand went to the throttle, but was stayed by what the navigator said next. Two simple words that filled Gabe with a whole new level of dread.
“They’re pursuing.” Then, after studying his panel, “Two frigates. Maybe three. This fog is messing with our readings.”
With an effort, Gabe pushed to his feet and crossed to the console. He glanced at the radar and the blobs of shifting green that represented the enemy boats.
“I need a map.”
The man pushed to one side, giving Gabe a better view of the laminated charts he kept beside his gauges.
“We’re here,” he said, pointing.
Gabe glanced ahead, and saw nothing but fog. It had been starting to clear around Knifespire, but back out on the water it was thick again. Twenty feet of visibility, tops.
“Full speed,” Gabe said.
“But—”
“It’s Stewart, yes?” Gabe said.
The use of the name tripped the pilot up. “I’m Graham, sir. Stewart helms the Mighty.”
“Yes, of course. Graham, we haven’t had the pleasure of sailing together, so I’ll only say this once. Everyone under my command is skilled as hell and a lot smarter than me. I let you all do your jobs because you’re a lot better at them than I am. In exchange, when I do give an order, I need it to be followed.” He stabbed a finger at the map. “So make for Adena, all possible speed. Tell me when we’re… here. And let the others know.”
The navigator and pilot exchanged a glance, then did as ordered.
When Gabe turned back around, Wyatt was beside him.
“You know what you’re doing?”
“Rarely,” Gabe said.
“But you have a plan of some sort, yes? You always have a plan.”
Gabe nodded, his gaze off the port bow. “I saw a light earlier.”
“Brother,” Wyatt said, “that does not fill me with a lot of confidence.”
* * *
Half a mile from Adena’s shore, the Mighty began to sink.
“Pull alongside,” Gabe shouted across the water to the pilot of the Domino. “We’ll split the survivors between us!” It would be tough to squeeze anyone else aboard the remaining boats, but what choice was there?
He got a thumbs up in response, or thought he did. Even twenty feet apart he had trouble seeing the other boat, much less the hand signals of her crew. He went to work moving those in his boat to make room. It was going to be crowded, but there was no other choice.
They took turns pulling sailors over the rail. He and Wyatt work
ed together to heave the Gears with their heavy armor on board.
Someone tapped his shoulder.
Gabe turned to see his navigator. The man put a finger to his lips, and pointed at the radar.
A quarter-mile behind them, three green blobs were moving from left to right.
“Kill the engines,” Gabe said at once, then cupped his hands and said the same to the other boat, now just ten feet off their starboard. “Wyatt, get the oars from under the bench.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not. We’ve only got a bit of fuel left, and we’re going to need it later for this to work. Besides, it’ll be the noise we’re making that leads them to us. We row the rest of the way.”
Wyatt seemed on the verge of creatively interpreting the order, but finally shrugged and went to fetch the oars.
They took turns, four rowing at a time. The Domino kept pace, but Gabe noticed they never switched rowers and he wondered how many aboard were wounded.
No one said anything. There was only the sound of the oar blades dipping into the waves, then back out again. Even that might be too much, but there was nothing to be done about it. They had to get to shore before the fog lifted. Even a partial lifting would give those UIR ships a clear radar view of the much smaller COG patrol boats. He meant to be hidden by the land before that could happen. Force them to have to wait for a visual search.
They weren’t as far south as he’d hoped, but when the tree-lined shore of Adena finally emerged from the fog he didn’t really care. It was land, and Adena was a much bigger place than Knifespire.
“Everyone ashore,” he said.
“What about our ships?” Graham asked.
“Aim them west and set them on autopilot.”
“So that’s why you wanted to save the last of the fuel,” Wyatt commented. “Let the Gorasni chase them to the horizon if they want. Damn, that’s smart. Gabe Diaz, always thinking ahead.”
They all knew the boats didn’t have enough fuel for what Wyatt envisioned, but Graham nodded all the same and went to work. Once everyone had disembarked, Gabe remained on board long enough to fire up the engine again and ramp it to full power, pointed west. Graham’s counterpart, Stewart, did the same with the CNV Domino.
Once the boat started building up speed, Gabe dove from her starboard rail and swam ashore.
Minutes later he sat on the beach, stinking of seaweed, watching his last two craft vanish into the fog. Everything hurt, but at least they were out of the water.
“Well,” Wyatt said, “you either just sent them on the best wild goose chase ever, or drew a line right to us.”
He glanced at his brother, and shrugged. “The boats will run out of fuel soon, and start to drift. My hope is the enemy will waste time approaching, boarding, and searching.”
“Still, I don’t think sitting on this beach is the smartest idea you’ve ever had.”
“Wasn’t planning to hang around long,” Gabe said. To either side of him, Gears and sailors alike were lying in the sand, catching their breath after the journey or tending to wounds. Both, in most cases.
“You okay, brother?” Wyatt asked.
“Thinking about all the people we lost on that fucking rock,” he admitted. Davis, Mendez, and so many others.
Wyatt took a seat in the sand beside him. “I’ve always looked up to you. Oscar, as well. Never once in my life have I felt like I knew something you two didn’t.”
Despite himself, Gabe glanced at the younger man, and waited. “
In my career in Spec Ops, I’ve been through a lot of nasty battles. Lost a lot of friends.”
“I have, too,” Gabe admitted. “Lost too many friends.”
“Which is one of the reasons I don’t bother making them anymore.”
“Right. A fine excuse,” Gabe said, unable to stop himself.
“Yeah, well… what I’m trying to say is, the time to think about those who’ve died is later.”
“How much later? That’s why they posted me here in these islands, you know. To get my thinking done, to get past it. So when is later, exactly?”
Wyatt glanced at him, surprised. “You’re not listening. It’s later. Always later. Never now.”
Gabe lowered his head and chuckled, wryly. “Wyatt, that is the worst goddamn advice I’ve ever heard.”
His brother heaved his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “It works for me.” He pulled a small silver flask from somewhere. Unscrewed the cap and took a swallow, then handed it to Gabe.
“What is it?”
“An alternative to thinking.”
Gabe took a swig. He should have expected the moonshine. Could practically taste the bathtub it was no doubt concocted in, but he swallowed it all the same and let the burn in his throat and stomach spread until it reached his brain.
He handed the flask back. Wyatt took it and handed it to a nearby Gear.
“Pass it around,” he said.
The woman took it gratefully, drank, passed it on.
For what felt like a long time the world seemed to stand still. There was only the sound of waves breaking on the shore, and the palm trees stirred by the occasional shift in the wind. Gabe lay back and stared at the sky. Or, rather, the fog, but there was a hazy white now where the sun would be. Soon it would burn through, and the day would get hot. Hot, and crystal clear.
“Do you hear that?” Wyatt asked.
Gabe sat up, and listened. “No?”
“Shh,” his brother said, and then he pointed. “There. Hear it?”
Other soldiers sat up now, or even stood, and all looked toward the northwest.
Gabe heard it then. The sound of a UIR frigate engine running just above idle. He waved his arms in the air to get his people’s attention. Holding a finger to his lips, he gestured with his Lancer toward the palm trees.
They all moved at once, slow and silent, following Wyatt’s lead. His Ghosts, being in the best condition physically, carried the bulk of their supplies. Gabe helped Gian up by her good arm, and the two of them brought up the rear.
Wyatt led them fifty feet into the jungle, up until the point that the sandy ground gave way to lumpy dirt littered with dry, dead palm fronds. The brittle foliage crunched so loudly underfoot that he dared go no farther. So Wyatt waved to the left and right, and then motioned downward.
Spread out and get behind cover.
The group complied. All of them knew they were still vulnerable to shelling here. Most of them knew that UIR frigates were equipped with sophisticated listening equipment, along with their radar, and that even a simple cough could be heard from many miles away provided the microphone was aimed at you.
Someone would be on deck right now, sweeping the conical device in slow circles, a set of heavy headphones tight on their ears, ready to call out the slightest sound. Of that Gabe had no doubt.
The sun broke through in a sudden explosion of warmth and light. With it the jungle collectively came alive. Birds and lizards and who-knew-what-else began to chatter and call.
That’s good, Gabe thought. Sonic camouflage.
A bead of sweat snaked a path down his back. Tiny red ants began to race up his arm in erratic lines. He ignored them until one bit him. He switched from ignoring then to staring at the little bastard, mentally warning it of the crushing flat-handed strike he planned to deliver as soon as the enemy boat passed by.
And it did pass by. He saw hints of it through the trees. Though the fog had cleared overhead, it still clung like a hazy curtain just offshore. The frigate couldn’t come in close enough to get a visual, not without risking a tangle with the rocks and reefs that surrounded Adena. Still he could make out its vague form. They were going slow, but not drifting. The patter of its engines still rolled in over the water. Even and low, but there.
Then the note changed. They rumbled up to full power, and for a split second Gabe thought they were turning toward him, reefs be damned, and the shelling would begin. He pivoted, ready to run inland, but th
ough the engines were pushed to maximum, the sound started fading. They were moving out to sea.
“Your trick worked,” Wyatt said, as the sound all but vanished. “With any luck they’ll chase ’em halfway across the Serano.”
“Not nearly enough fuel.”
“Current’s strong out there,” Graham offered. “Southerly, but strong. We might have bought ourselves a few hours.”
“I’ll take whatever we can get,” Gabe said. He raised his voice a little. “Everyone stay sharp. I don’t know how long it will take, but they’ll be back.”
Wyatt raised a hand. “What’s the plan, LC?”
For a second Gabe considered reversing the leadership role here. It was, after all, Special Forces that had started this mess, and it would be nice to see Wyatt and his team take some responsibility for once. Then he discarded the thought as quickly as it had come. Taking responsibility was not one of his brother’s strong suits.
“I saw a light near the southern tip of the island, on our way out here. The day before that we saw some fishing boats anchored on the eastern side down there. A village.”
They grew shifty at this, which Gabe expected. “I know, I know. We’ve had run-ins with these people before. They don’t take sides, don’t help. Don’t care about our war, but we need to pass through there to get to the southmost point. From there we wait for evac. I’ve no idea how long it will take, but Phillips will send someone to come get us.”
“Hopefully before those Gorasni do the same,” Blair said. Her tone was more pissed-off than concerned, but Gabe let it go. He pointed south.
“Let’s move out. Wyatt, you want to take point?”
“I’d rather scout ahead. By myself.”
“Yeah, for some reason that idea worries me.”
“C’mon, you don’t trust me? On second thought, don’t answer that. How about us Ghosts bring up the rear, make sure we’re not being tracked by any Indie scouts?”
Blair stepped forward. “I’ll take point, sir.”
Gabe nodded. “Lead on, then. If you spot any locals, play the diplomatic card. Wyatt, since you don’t have a diplomatic card in your deck, how about just avoiding the locals?”
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