There was no breeze to speak of, a fact Gabe was grateful for as the waves could have been much worse. But this lack of wind had a downside, too. A major one.
Knifespire did not come into view when it should have.
Instead, a cloud hung over the island. Dark and ominous at its highest altitudes, like a deep bruise painted shades of orange on its western side where the sun was now just below the horizon.
The lower part of this cloud, though, was wrong.
Gabe knew the reason immediately, because he’d once fought a battle at a UIR Imulsion refinery. The vapors stirred up by the luminous liquid carried an awful yellowish glow. In his previous experience, numerous fires and a stiff breeze had both served to mitigate the effect. But here, on a still night over a calm island, the vapors simply clung, shrouding the island and the surrounding waters in a dimly glowing fog.
“That’s going to be a problem,” Wyatt observed.
Gabe wasn’t so sure. “If we can get in there,” he said, “it levels the field. We’re low on ammo, but they won’t be able to see who’s who in there.” Mentally he put himself in that situation, imagining not just the intense close-quarters combat, but the disorientation and mistaken identities. “Pass the word along to everyone. Once we get inside that cloud, we stay close together. Move in groups.”
“Got it,” Blair said.
“Bayonets whenever possible,” Gabe added. “Conserve ammo.”
“Agreed, sir.” She sniffed at the air, as if trying to smell the distant cloud. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not looking forward to breathing that.”
“Me neither,” Wyatt added. “Heard stories…”
Gabe had, too. Miners afflicted with terrible racking coughs that left them spitting blood. “We’ll worry about that tomorrow,” he said, “right now we have a job to do. And besides, the enemy will have it as bad as we do.”
For a long time no one spoke. They all stared at the island as it grew closer, obscured under its awful shroud. Gabe was starting to get a sense of the shape of it. The low southern tip, the long and slightly sloped Gatka Ridge, and the spire on the north end. All were virtually hidden, only occasionally offering glimpses of their topography as the cloud grew and shifted.
“There,” Wyatt said, pointing.
Gabe had just spotted them, too. Enemy boats.
“They’ve moved right up close to the shore,” Gian noted. “Offloading troops, or equipment?”
“Maybe both,” Gabe said. “Could be they just want to disguise their numbers.” He’d hoped to find them all gone, powering hard for Vectes and its undefended walls. Wishful thinking, of course. They may well have taken that bait, but of course they would leave a force behind to hold the Imulsion source. It was too valuable to just leave unattended.
Gabe shifted his attention to the island itself. He thought he saw movement in the thick Imulsion fog, but it was hard to say for sure. Setting up an extraction rig, or putting defenses into place? It was impossible to tell. He looked back at the more immediate problem: the enemy fleet.
He could make out two frigates in the edges of the mist. And then…
“That’s a fucking battleship,” Wyatt said. “When the hell did they get a battleship here?”
“Does it matter when?” Gabe asked.
“I guess not.”
Gabe signaled to the man at the helm, Graham. “Slow up. Half speed.”
“Engines to half,” he repeated, and the tone of the coughing old engine changed.
For a time no one spoke. They’re waiting for me, Gabe realized. Think, think.
Before he could work through the implications, there was a crackle of static in his ear. Gian had reassembled his armor on the beach before leaving. Wyatt’s too, though she’d warned that both were unlikely to work well, if at all. She’d done her best, but without tools the work was far from trivial.
And she’d been right. Ever since leaving he’d been assaulted by the occasional sharp hiss in his ear, followed once by a garbled voice.
This time the voice was intelligible.
“—approaching your position,” the voice said, “and awaiting instructions.”
“Repeat?” Gabe said. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Diaz, please repeat and identify yourself.”
More static, more mangled words. Gabe heard the word “Corva,” though, and sighed with relief.
“—inbound to Knifespire. Approx fifteen minutes. Repeat, one-five minutes. Requesting orders.”
“Affirmative,” Gabe said. “Stand by.”
Gabe nodded toward Graham. “How long until we hit the beach?”
“About fifteen,” Graham said.
“Perfect.” He glanced at Wyatt. Wyatt glanced at him.
“Phillips said those Corvas are outfitted for sub-hunting,” Gabe reminded him. “Will it be enough to take on that battleship?”
Wyatt shrugged. “No experience with a ship like that, brother. Sorry.”
But Graham answered the question. “If they come in low, and get a clear shot, sure.”
Wyatt grunted. “No clear shot in that goddamn haze.”
He was right, of course. Gabe rubbed at his stubbled chin, thinking.
“I’m going to have to paint the target for them,” he said, finally.
“How the hell are you going to do that?” Gian asked.
Gabe shrugged. “Drop my armor in the water by its hull and switch on the rescue beacon.”
She thought about it, then nodded, grimly. They all looked grim. What Gabe was proposing would work, but was very likely a one-way mission.
“It should be me,” Wyatt said. When Gabe glanced at him, his brother held his stare.
At a gesture, Gabe followed his brother toward the gunwale. They stood at the railing, both facing the island.
“It’s the type of thing I’ve trained for, Gabe, and you know it.” When Gabe did not reply, he added, “Besides, you need to lead the charge onto the beach. It’s going to be hell, too, don’t worry.”
“I’ll ask for volunteers,” Gabe muttered.
“I am the volunteer, brother.”
Gabe forced himself to look at the man, now. A face he’d known since his earliest memories. Always up to something. Always trying to prove himself, or get back at those who’d wronged him.
“I can’t ask you to do this,” he said.
“True,” Wyatt replied. “But you can order me to. Look, if anyone has a chance to do this and still get away, it’s me, right? A Ghost? You call this a dangerous op, we call it a fucking Tuesday.”
There was, Gabe realized, no arguing it. There was only the decision.
“Okay. Okay. Do it,” he said. “But… come back, Wyatt. That’s an order, too.”
“Sure. But the mission comes first,” Wyatt said.
“The mission comes first,” Gabe agreed. He embraced his brother, and Wyatt returned the gesture fiercely. When they parted, Gabe looked at him grimly. “Wait here,” he said.
He went to Blair, then, and she led him to the meager cache of supplies they had left. Cataloging it on the beach before leaving had been a chore, but now it proved key. Gabe grabbed what he’d come for, ignoring Blair’s concerned look, and went back to Wyatt.
Gabe placed the shaped charge in Wyatt’s hands.
“In case Plan A fails,” Gabe said. “Use this. Plan B.”
“Aw, brother, you know I don’t like to think past Plan A.”
“And you know that I do.”
“Yeah, B, C, all the way down the whole damn alphabet.” He grinned, despite his tone. “You haven’t changed a bit, brother. All these years.”
“It stops at B this time, I’m afraid. Last resort, okay? I mean that.”
“Last resort,” Wyatt repeated, tucking the device away.
“Graham,” Gabe called out over the thudding engine. “Any sign they’ve spotted us yet?”
“Negative, sir,” the man replied.
“Good.” To Wyatt he said, “Take a boat, go arou
nd to approach from the east. Their attention will be on us, and with any luck they’ll think you’re Ciprian, making an escape. Find a rain shawl or something to cover your armor with.”
Wyatt nodded. “You can count on me, brother.”
“I know, Wyatt. But you know you have nothing to prove to me, right?”
“’Course,” Wyatt said, grinning slyly. “But I can always build the legend a little more.” With that he winked, and set off to the ladder as another fishing boat pulled aside for the transfer.
Gabe had no time to waste. He activated his comm again.
“Lead Corva, this is Diaz.” He gave them the details of Wyatt’s rescue beacon. “Time your arrival for fifteen minutes from now. Make your run from the west, the sun might disguise your approach. Is that understood?”
“We’ll do our best,” the pilot replied.
“What’s your name, pilot?” Gabe asked.
“Sorotki, sir.”
“Well, Sorotki, I don’t need your best. I need this done, and done precisely. We only get one shot.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Diaz out.”
He glanced at Graham, Kabir, and Gian, who together were doing their best to make the old fishing boat behave.
“Get us on that beach before they realize this is not some night fishing expedition.”
“Sir,” the three replied in unison.
Gabe, along with the rest of the Gears, hunkered down in back, trying to keep hidden from view.
Unable to help himself, though, Gabe lifted his head just enough to watch Wyatt’s boat as its path diverged, taking him east, then north.
* * *
They were a minute out from the beach when it all went to hell.
“Sir!” Blair shouted, pointing.
But Gabe, still watching Wyatt’s craft as it bobbed along toward the enemy fleet, had seen it already.
The UIR ships were on the move, getting out from under the shadow of the spire and into open sea. As they emerged from the cloud of haze, Gabe’s heart sank. He’d miscalculated, and badly.
The battleship was a real bruiser, but it was the frigates that terrified him now. There weren’t two, but ten, and at least four were decked out for anti-aircraft duty.
“No,” Gabe hissed. “No, no, no.”
It was too late to do anything about it. The shore loomed dead ahead. In the distance he could just make out Wyatt’s little fishing boat as it bounded toward the enemy ships, who no doubt had a clear view of him now. There was only hope, at this point, Gabe realized. Hope they wouldn’t look in that direction. Hope that Wyatt could get into their ranks far enough to place his beacon beside the right vessel.
And hope that the beach ahead was not yet defended.
As if the island of Knifespire itself could read his every thought, the trees began to sparkle.
“Down!” Gabe shouted.
A massive barrage of gunfire thwhipped into the water and rattled against the hull. The window in front of Graham suddenly spiderwebbed and the man jerked. Gabe saw blood start to seep through the back of his uniform, at his right shoulder blade, but the sailor kept both hands on the wheel and his focus on the task at hand.
Gabe glanced back, met Blair’s gaze.
This was going to be ugly, but she was ready. They all were.
Behind her, far off now, he saw the fishing boat moving at speed toward the UIR frigates. At this distance it was impossible to see Wyatt, but Gabe could imagine what was going through his head. What he was doing was unbelievably dangerous, but it would be what turned the tide here, Gabe felt sure.
“Beach in ten seconds!” Graham shouted over the low rumble of gunfire coming from the island. “Get ready!”
It all happened so fast.
The boat took a hard right, and Graham killed the engines. All around them, the other fishing boats did the same.
“OVER!” Gabe shouted.
And then a storm of movement as his Gears vaulted the side and were knee-deep in the waves.
A Gear beside Gabe lurched and fell backward, a bullet hole just above his left eye, leaking blood and brain fluid into the dark water.
Farther off, someone started to scream. The sound was cut off with a horrible gargling as someone went down with a splash.
Gabe ignored it all. The beach was the only thing that mattered. Cover.
He waded forward, firing bursts from his Lancer toward the tree line. It didn’t take a genius to realize the enemy was far more prepared than he’d expected. Defensive positions were set up all along Gatka Ridge, and though they were partially fogged in, their targets coming ashore were not. Not yet, anyway. Tracer fire lit up the beach and the shallows as gunners sprayed the incoming Gears with an overwhelming barrage.
It was then the fleet joined the onslaught.
The whistle of a shell signaled their entry into the battle. Followed by explosions all along the beach, and a thunder from out at sea where they now had a perfectly clear shot at the fleet of fishing boats.
Gabe knew his little trick using the natives’ watercraft would not last once they made for shore, but he didn’t expect it to be this quick.
He threw himself behind a driftwood log twenty feet up the beach, if only to hide from the machine-gun fire coming from the ridge. There was no defense against the shelling coming from out at sea.
“C’mon Wyatt,” Gabe whispered. He tapped his comm. “Sorotki, report! Where the hell are you!?”
“Target’s painted!” the Corva pilot replied. “Initiating attack!”
Gabe said a silent thanks to his brother, and the timing of the helicopter pilots. Another minute of this shelling and he wouldn’t have any Gears left to hold up his end of the bargain.
He ducked low as another barrage of bullets tore into the driftwood barricade he’d hidden behind. Blair, a few feet away, took a quick glance over the edge of the log, then ducked back down.
“They’ve got gas masks,” she said, disgusted. “It’s practically cheating.”
“We’ll take them for ourselves as we go. Along with their weapons and ammo.”
She glanced at him, nodding gruffly. Blair knew as well as he did that this battle would be unwinnable if the Gears had to rely on their own equipment and supplies.
“Ten seconds,” Sorotki reported. “Entering the cloud!”
Gabe waited, gritting his teeth. Another shell tore into the beach. A big one, from that battleship. Hot sand blasted across Gabe’s shoulders and back. Bits of flaming fabric, too. The remains of someone’s uniform.
Another salvo targeted the fishing boats, reducing them to flaming planks of wood in a matter of seconds. There would be no retreat, now.
From somewhere to the north Gabe heard a new sound, like a pile of dry wood being consumed by an inferno.
“Anti-air!” Sorotki shouted, panic in his voice. “There’s too many!”
“Abort!” another pilot said on the comm.
“Do not abort!” Gabe roared. “Hit that beacon or we’re all dead!”
The crackling sound continued, a constant and ugly vibration.
“Corva Three is down,” Sorotki reported, speaking through clenched teeth. “Taking fire, taking fire!”
“C’mon, c’mon,” Gabe muttered, “keep your nerve, son.” Then he tapped his comm again. “Wyatt, are you clear?”
Instead of a response from his brother, Gabe heard a sudden scream from the pilot of Corva Two, a sound abruptly cut off by a crash of static.
“Wyatt?” Gabe repeated. “Are you clear?”
His brother made no reply.
“Torpedo away,” Sorotki announced. “Taking heavy fire. I’ve lost fuel pressure on—”
Static drowned his words.
Turning toward the ocean, Gabe was in time to see an explosion bloom from the hull of one of the frigates. It was a massive blast, lifting the ship several feet above its draft before the UIR ship tipped and cracked in half, spilling fire and bodies as it quickly sank.
It was not the battleship, though. The shot had missed.
Gabe turned to Blair, who was looking at him with an expression of grim determination. They had only one choice. She knew it as well as he did. But it would have to be him that said it.
“Advance!” Gabe shouted.
And then he was over the barrier, pounding across the stretch of sand between him and the palm trees. He threw his only grenade into a machine-gun nest off to his left, then angled himself toward another on his right. In the flashes of Lancer fire and the flames burning all around, he could make out the blurry forms of Indie guerillas in gas masks, hunkered down and well covered.
“Grenades!” Blair roared.
Those who had them, used them. The rest laid down fire as they rushed the trees. Explosions lit up the cloud of Imulsion. Bodies were thrown into the air. Gears fell, screaming, or just diving for cover out of sheer instinct.
It was total chaos, once they reached the glowing vapor.
Despite it all, Gabe had to try once more. He slowed, then took a knee, activating his comm. “Wyatt?! Did you get clear?! Respond!”
Nothing. A bullet whizzed past his ear, but Gabe ignored it.
“Wyatt, goddammit! Talk to me!”
Gabe barely noticed when Blair knocked him to the ground, an instant before an enemy grenade exploded where he’d been kneeling.
“LC!” Blair shouted. It sounded like a whisper, but he knew somewhere deep down the word had been yelled at the top of her lungs straight into his ear. “Snap the fuck out of it! He’s gone! We’ve got to get onto that ridge or we will be, too! Now MOVE!”
Then her hands were at the collar of his armor, and she heaved him to his feet. Her face was pure rage. Her eyes wide and wild. She shook him, hard.
“Make it fucking mean something, goddammit.”
This she did not shout, but he heard the words, loud and clear. Gabe blinked, took a shaky breath, and nodded to her. He turned and grabbed a rocket launcher dropped by the slain Gear. It had only one round left.
“The ridge!” he shouted, realizing others had slowed when he did, waiting for him.
He fired, and his Gears followed the example. Rockets flew. Targets picked at random. Fireballs bloomed to life all along the gentle slope of Gatka Ridge, anywhere muzzle flashes revealed the positions of the enemy. The sun was at the enemy’s back, just a fiery sliver on the horizon now, obscured by smoke and Imulsion. When the Gears had been on the beach, it had been as good a shooting gallery as any eager young Gorasni could ever hope for. But the moment Gabe and his troops entered the thick Imulsion haze, everything changed.
Gears of War Page 20