by Richard Fox
So far, all he'd seen were men and women wearing hospital scrubs or white lab coats, and a few lightly armed security guards. That contrasted with the high-tech Ibarran countermeasures they’d disabled and the double razor fence.
He assumed the real security force was somewhere nearby. The faster they got in and out of this place, the better.
An unseen force dragged a security guard from the room, his weapon yanked from his hand before he could fire.
“Steuben is having entirely too much fun with this," Booker grumbled. "We should've brought more stealth cloaks."
"Our mission shouldn't have needed them. This was supposed to be infiltration," Hoffman said, but he had thought the same thing. "And that technology isn't easy to come by since all the recon missions preceding the assault on Kesaht-ka.”
A new security guard wearing dark-blue fatigues and a nylon gun belt ran into the room from one of the hallways. He didn't move like a soldier, or even a cop. He was young and looked terrified.
"What the hell's going on here?” he demanded shakily.
Steuben deactivated his stealth cloak and blood drained from the security guard’s face. He retreated a step and fumbled for his weapon. When his hand found the pistol, he pulled on it twice without unsnapping the holster. His fear turned to panic and he shuffled backward, holding a hand up defensively.
Steuben growled, his lips quivering over rows of teeth.
“Hey, hey, you stop…right there…” The young guard finally yanked his pistol from the holster.
Steuben snatched it from his hand and shoved him backward. “I was ordered not to kill humans unless they proved troublesome. Are you troublesome, boy human?”
Hoffman rushed in, motioning for the rest of his team to take positions at each doorway. He addressed the remaining guard, not worrying about whether the other two were dead or unconscious.
"Do you have zip ties or other restraints?" Hoffman asked.
"Who…who the hell are you people? What is that thing?” the guard asked, massaging his gun hand and glaring at Steuben warily.
"Don't worry about it. Pretend you're dreaming. I don’t want to hurt anyone, which will be a lot easier if I can tie your people up and keep you quiet until we're done. Once we have what we want, we’ll be out of here with no further problems," Hoffman said.
"I only have two sets of handcuffs,” the man said, his voice squeaking.
Garrison pulled plastic ties from his HIT kit. “They’re not made for prisoner restraint, but they should work if they don’t struggle too much and make them tighten up. Problem is, if they get stupid and try to wiggle free, they could cut off blood flow to their hands. With the medical tech they have in this century, they’d probably need to amputate.”
None of the hospital staff argued or resisted.
Booker and Garrison made a daisy chain of prisoners as Steuben, stealth gear activated, moved out of the room.
"Max, check the cameras and security systems. Are we compromised?” Hoffman asked.
"No, we're good, boss," Max said a minute later. "If they have more than a couple rent-a-cops, I don't see them."
“Good. You're with me. Booker, take Garrison and start searching for anyone from the Breitenfeld." Hoffman grabbed the radio from the security guard. "Where can I get another one of these?"
"You have to find another security guard, or go to the command center," the young security guard said defiantly. “About fifty cops are going to be here any second. You better let us go.”
“You heard the man. We can use their radios to monitor their response. Keep our comms on the radio phones. Find Valdar, then call out ‘Gott mit uns.’” Hoffman clipped the radio to his belt, attaching the mic near his collar and adjusting the volume to twenty-five percent, guessing at the correct level because no one was currently talking on the channel.
"Yes, sir," Booker said.
Hoffman and Max went room to room, finding defeated-looking men and women in small padded rooms. Opening the door to the first cell, he said, "Breitenfeld.”
"Who the hell are you?" asked an inmate who barely turned away from the corner where he huddled.
Hoffman closed the door and motioned for Max to continue. The next two rooms were repeats of the first. The fourth was different.
Max cracked the door and leaned in. "Breitenfeld.”
"Gott mit uns,” the man said, his eyes expressing more hope than seemed possible.
“Get out in the hallway, sailor, and keep quiet. We're here for Valdar," Hoffman said. “What’s your name?”
"Petty Chief Jonathan Fleetson, engine room."
“Lt. Hoffman, Strike Marines," he responded.
The man smiled broadly. “How’d the admiral get his Hammers out here? You know what? Don’t care. Just want to get home."
"Do you know where they're keeping the admiral?"
The man shook his head.
"Keep quiet and keep moving. Do whatever my people or I tell you to do and you should be OK," Hoffman said.
“Aye aye.”
Hoffman’s stolen radio crackled.
“Bull Six for Bull Five, where are you? I need to take my break.”
Hoffman lowered the volume slightly as his cell phone vibrated. He answered, “Go.”
"Booker for Hammer Six, how copy?"
"I read you,” Hoffman responded.
“We have a radio. Sounds like the kid’s supervisor needs to take a smoke break or something. No luck on our target. I think it's going to be a process of elimination. Room-to-room search,” Booker said.
“Roger. Case of beer for the person who finds him.” Hoffman finished the radio conversation, then addressed Max. “Take the left side of the hallway. I'll finish on the right."
He paused outside the next room, fighting down feelings of dread. What if something had happened to Valdar? The man was proud—and a danger to the Ibarra Nation. Images of him being interrogated and something going wrong plagued his imagination. Someone like Medvedev might have broken his neck. Or shot him when he tried to escape. Or something worse. There was no telling what the Ibarrans would do to keep their entire population from being exterminated under the Hale Treaty proccie clause.
Opening the next door and hesitating only for a second, he said, “Breitenfeld.”
The thin, older man twisted toward him, his hands covering his face and his long hair hiding his hands. He answered like his mouth was full of too much spit. “Breitenfeld or Darkenfeld. Yes! You get it. Now remember that I like pizza, Steve!”
“I’m not Steve,” Hoffman said without thinking.
“Then be gone with you! All hail the lord of the Darkenfeld! Get off my lawn, you crazy kids!”
Hoffman pulled back and shut the door, motioning for Max to continue on his side of the hallway. The next two rooms were empty.
He was running out of rooms when he finally got lucky. Opening the door, he paused for several seconds, staring at the cell’s only occupant. "Hammer Six, I have the target. Gott mit uns. Move to rendezvous point.”
The man who had been sitting straight against the wall despite his abused physical condition opened his eyes. "Lieutenant Hoffman, it's about time you got here. I'm in a bit of a situation."
Hoffman laughed shortly. The man had obviously been through hell but maintained his dignity and professionalism. It was as though he truly expected rescue despite the impossible situation. "Apologies, Admiral. If you’ll kindly accompany me, we have a Mule to catch.”
Valdar levered himself to his feet, bracing himself against the padded wall with one hand. “I may be more than a tad medicated. Not feeling my best. These Ibarran witch doctors have no sense of humor.”
“Witch doctors, sir?”
“Psychoanalysts. Anal-retentive jackwagons. They claimed I was a difficult patient.”
"Max, stay tight on the admiral until we reach the rendezvous point. You're now assigned to him as his personal security until we get clear," Hoffman said.
“Yes, sir, g
uarding the admiral,” Max said, weapon ready, a serious look on his face.
****
"Booker for Hammer Six."
"Go," Hoffman responded.
"Something’s going on. They have security personnel responding—looks like the A-team, if you know what I mean. Can't make it to the rendezvous point. Need an alternate route," Booker said.
"Understood," Hoffman responded, then signaled for Max to pick up the pace. "Hammer Six for Steuben, did you copy that traffic?"
"I copy. Will attempt to locate the problem and isolate it.”
“He can’t just fight everyone,” Max said, shaking his head.
“Karigole are like that,” Hoffman said.
Admiral Valdar limped from a combination of injuries and medications. Hoffman hurried forward, clearing intersections so that Max wouldn't have to slow down with the principal.
He was almost to the junction where they had detained the hospital staff when he heard heavy footfalls. “Look sharp, team. We may have a problem.”
He knew what he was hearing—power armor, but not the Strike Marine variety. It had to be Ibarran.
"Hammer Six, I'm gonna have trouble at the nurses’ station." Hoffman barely had the words out of his mouth before his adversary rounded the corner and attacked.
"Steuben for Hammer Six, I'm closest. What kind of trouble?"
There wasn't time to answer. The Ibarran was huge, nearly as big as Opal had been, and something about the way the soldier moved was familiar.
"Halt," the Ibarran growled. "I don't want to hurt you, Hoffman. Don't tell Masha. My leniency will anger her."
The legionnaire’s tone wasn’t convincing.
"Get out of our way, Medvedev," Hoffman said.
Valdar spoke up. "He's in power armor. You can’t beat him.”
Medvedev laughed, his deep voice rumbling through the external speakers of his armor. "You're trying to stall for him, aren't you, Admiral, you sly old fox."
The Ibarran advanced, his eyes studying Valdar and Max.
Hoffman moved between them, aiming his Glock at the legionnaire.
Medvedev looked around, exaggerating his visual search of the area. "Where's your muscle? I've never seen you without that big lug Opal nearby. You finally put him down?”
For about one second, Hoffman thought he had control of his reaction, then the rage swept through him. He fired as he advanced, then kicked at the legionnaire’s knee, one of the few weak spots in this type of armor.
The joints weren’t weak to penetrating force, but they were susceptible to blunt-force trauma or rotational torque. Knees required a sufficient range of motion to operate naturally, no matter who designed the armor, which meant Hoffman could damage his enemy’s ability to remain on his feet.
Medvedev dodged to one side and swung a heavy fist at Hoffman’s head.
Hoffman dropped back just enough to avoid the blow and holstered his weapon. There wasn’t time to reload, so he tackled the bigger man. Catching Medvedev around his knees, he threw his shoulders against the legionnaire’s hip joint and twisted sideways.
They struggled at the tipping point of the takedown, Medvedev almost succeeding at defeating the takedown attempt with pure strength and stubbornness.
Hoffman didn't know what he was screaming. Rage gave him strength and he slammed the bear of a man to the ground.
Medvedev twisted onto his side and slipped away from the attack like a skilled mixed-martial-arts fighter. At the same time, he punched Hoffman in the side of the head.
Hoffman saw spots and his ears rang. He struggled to create some distance between them and formulate a new attack. Without really knowing how he got there, he was on his feet, fists up.
Medvedev kicked him in the stomach, driving him against the wall as Max shoved Valdar toward the door, yelling at him to keep moving.
Hoffman picked himself up and ran forward, jabbing with his left fist and swinging a haymaker with his right. Medvedev blocked both attacks and shoved him backward, knocking him down again.
Steuben rushed into the room, throwing off his stealth cloak. "Why don't you try me, Ibarran?”
Medvedev grabbed Hoffman and slammed him against the wall so violently that he landed upside down. With no loss of motion, the legionnaire advanced on Steuben. "I hope you’re a better fighter than that, Karigole. I know who you are."
Medvedev attacked with a powerful, lunging punch. Instead of dodging, Steuben duplicated the attack, smashing his fist into the legionnaire’s fist.
Righting himself, Hoffman searched for his dropped pistol but couldn’t find it, so he pulled the archaic revolver Marc Ibarra had insisted he add to his small allotment of weaponry, claiming the .44 Magnum was the most powerful handgun in the world.
He aimed, pulled the trigger, and heard a click—only then remembering it was what Marc had called a “cowboy” load. The first cylinder was empty to avoid an accidental discharge.
A doctor in a white lab coat came around the corner, shock on his face. His name tag read “Peterson.”
"What is…? What is…? What’s going on here?" he finally managed.
Hoffman hesitated, struggling with his reload, but Max improvised.
"It's an alien invasion! Look at that thing," he said, pointing at Steuben.
“No, no! It can't be!" the psychiatrist exclaimed, backing away before he turned and ran.
Popping the cylinder open, Hoffman saw the gleaming bullets and the soft glow of light they emitted near the hollow-point tip. Reassured, he snapped the cylinder closed and wondered if he’d used too much force. This happened in less than a second, but he still felt he was moving too slow.
“Break contact and I’ll use stun rounds!” Hoffman shouted, wincing at Ibarra’s ridiculous habit of naming weapons from the 1990s.
Steuben roared, rushing forward with a flurry of punches and kicks.
“That’s the opposite of breaking away, Steuben,” Hoffman complained, searching for a clean shot.
Before Hoffman could fire, the two giants clashed, grappling like Titans.
"Go help Max,” Steuben grunted through clenched teeth as he struggled to overpower Medvedev. “There will be more of these legionnaires trying to steal back the admiral."
"Don't underestimate me, Karigole!” Medvedev shouted, then tried to helmet-butt him.
Two other legionnaires in full armor burst into the room. Hoffman pivoted, aimed, and fired, hitting them each twice. The pistol slammed against his hand with each shot, recoil control not being part of old-Earth technology apparently.
The legionnaires went down, gaping holes in the front of their armor, their systems scrambled and armor locked.
Steuben and Medvedev pushed away from each another and drew their weapons at the same time. The Ember War hero and the Ibarran legionnaire fired and moved, shouting curses and threats Hoffman couldn't quite understand.
“Go, Hoffman!” Steuben shouted, nearly losing his fight because he was attending to Hoffman, Max, and Valdar’s progress. “You’ll need that hand cannon later!”
“Catch up with us,” Hoffman ordered. Halfway to the door to go after Max and Valdar, he hesitated. He’d fought beside Steuben long enough to know how deadly the Karigole warrior was, but he’d also seen Medvedev in action.
“You’re going to leave him?” Valdar asked incredulously.
“No,” Hoffman muttered, already moving.
Running back toward the fight with “the most powerful handgun in the world” pushed ahead of him, he aimed, hoping to put one of the powered-up rounds on Medvedev. The two large warriors twisted as they fought, making a shot difficult. Hoffman moved for a better angle, but still couldn't safely put a round on the legionnaire.
****
“LT, I’m trying to get Booker or Garrison to respond,” Max said, positioning his body to protect the doorway he’d stuffed Valdar into. The door was closed; the spot was the best cover in the room to avoid taking a ricochet. “Can’t hear what they’re saying, but
there are problems up ahead.”
Hoffman didn’t have time to answer. Missions were never linear and neither was combat. He pushed back the chaos in his head and focused on the here and now—a dirty street fight with strange guns, a six-foot-five alien, and a legionnaire in combat armor.
“I’m calling for backup,” Max repeated, his words barely audible through the violent noise of Steuben and Medvedev’s epic fight. The comms specialist aimed and fired a shot, but quickly reconsidered after his first miss. Hitting Steuben wouldn’t help and he only had so many bullets.
“Good idea, Corporal Austin Mayfield,” Masha said, rushing into the room with two additional legionnaires in full combat armor.
Hoffman fired without hesitation, dropping the first legionnaire with one shot, then hearing a click. The pistol would have had six rounds if not for the cowboy load. Ducking behind a desk at the nurses’ station, he flipped open the cylinder and reloaded awkwardly.
The second legionnaire came around the counter, searching for a target with his weapon. In a half second, Hoffman would be dead.
He fired from the hip, dimly noticing in his peripheral vision that Steuben had been hurled across the room, not for the first time.
The armored legionnaire danced as the up-charged .44-caliber round hit his armor and let off tiny tendrils of electricity that arced over his body. His muscles locked up, pulling the trigger and shooting rounds that stitched the floor all around him and cutting a gash on Hoffman’s face. Something bit into the Strike Marine’s left arm, but he could still move it.
“Give me more legionnaires!” Masha shouted into her comms.
“Get the admiral out of here,” Hoffman ordered, running to their position. “I’m right behind you.” He shoved Max and Valdar into the nearest hallway and guarded their escape.
“All of these hallways crisscross,” Valdar warned, his voice stronger now but still weak from his ordeal. “That spy could easily get ahead of us or send a blocking team.”