“Get below,” he ordered Bracer, motioning to the sewer entrance.
“The others?”
“Stug and Pusher have the objective. Come on, I’ll help you with Hawkeye.”
Bracer nodded, moving toward the manhole. He leapt below, landing with a grunt of pain. Hatch fed the spotter’s body through the hole until Bracer confirmed he could break Hawkeye’s fall. Then they were gone into the sewer, and Hatch turned his attention back to the armory. Somewhere inside, his captain and their ally were still fighting. And that was the best-case scenario.
His quickest ingress to their position was the same way they’d gone in: leaping from the flophouse roof to the armory’s, then down the stairs. But before he could move, he saw a drone fly past on the street at the other end of the alley. He sheltered in the back door to the flophouse and peered around the corner. Sure enough, the drone had stopped, reversed, and was now coming slowly up the alley toward his position.
Hatch felt movement behind him. He rounded quickly, bringing his rifle up.
“Lieutenant . . .” said the tired voice, out of breath. Logan stepped from the shadows of the flophouse kitchen and fell forward into Hatch’s arms.
Hatch caught him, bore him up. “Where’s the captain?” he asked immediately.
Logan couldn’t speak. Weighed down by the laser rifles on his back, he was exhausted, disoriented.
“Logan!” Hatch shook him hard. He could hear a low hum thrumming off the sweating stone of the alley walls. “Where is she? Where’s Mary?”
“Back there,” he breathed, motioning upward.
“She’s on the roof?”
Logan shook his head. He remembered where he was now. Where she was. “No. Armory, second floor.”
“You left her there?”
Still shaking his head, the ex-spy said, “She insisted I go. For my people.”
Hatch felt exasperation rising in him. Frustration. Anger. Fear.
Sounds like something she’d do, goddamnit.
The humming was closer. Hatch actually heard the drone’s camera eye clicking its focal shutters as it read their heat sigs. He pushed Logan hard against the wall, turned, and swept a rapid burst from his laser rifle until it found its mark. The drone shook, sputtered, and exploded. Glancing down the alley, Hatch saw another coming to take its place. And another behind that. And they were coming faster. The first must have reported what it found before ceasing to function.
“Get down into the sewer, Logan, now!” Hatch took half of Logan’s load of rifles from him and pushed him toward the manhole. “Don’t wait for me! Run!”
Propelled by Hatch, the salvager lurched toward the hole. The lead drone started to fire, but thanks to his uneven, staggering gait, Logan was lucky enough to evade it.
Hatch slung his new load over his head. Then he knelt, took careful aim, released a breath, and fired. He missed.
Logan bent over the hole, dropped his captured rifles below, and lowered himself down. It all moved too slowly for Hatch, but had Logan moved any faster, he’d likely have injured himself and become even more of a liability than he already was. At last Logan was through the hole and out of sight.
Hatch sighted in again. The drone was less than fifty feet away. It had the advantage of seeing his infrared signature inside the flophouse. He had no such advantage for seeing around corners with his human eyes.
Before he could fire, the drone’s Gatling laser spat beams at the wall that hid him, spraying Hatch with stone and concrete. One small piece caught him mid-forehead. Another centimeter down, and he would’ve lost an eye. He retreated into the building, brushing brick and mortar from his face. The drone obliterated the doorway behind him, carving its own entryway into the flophouse.
Hatch paused behind the stoves. He wanted to go after Mary.
If she’s even still alive, his training argued.
She’s alive. His voice was savage and coarse in his own head. But if he were honest with himself, he only half believed she might still be living. She’d never surrender. And Transport wasn’t known for taking prisoners.
The drone blasted the doorway to the kitchen, creating a flight path. Hatch ducked and scampered backward, using the cooking surfaces and cabinets for cover.
If you stay, you die, his training argued. More are coming. Assuming she’s still alive, you’ll never have the chance to rescue her if you’re dead.
That was a simple truth. The TRACER drones would bring down the entire building, killing everyone in it, to achieve their rather simple objective: Kill TRACE Operatives. And Mary would never sanction that kind of sacrifice simply for a chance to save her life.
“Another day, then,” Hatch whispered. He chanced a glance over the metal counter. The drone seemed distracted, perhaps honing in on another heat sig beyond the kitchen wall, an unknowing resident of the flophouse who’d done nothing more than be unlucky enough to be enslaved for next-to-nothing wages in the service of Transport.
He aimed his rifle, shouted, and fired. The drone jerked its red eye toward him, but his blast took it squarely in its gravimetric regulator. He ducked back into cover as the drone began an electronic coughing fit and dropped to the floor, unable to fly. Behind it, he saw its companion begin to enter the building. Then he heard the build-up in the first TRACER and hunkered down harder. An electronic scream, a flare of light, and the drone on the floor exploded, taking out the second machine hovering above.
Metal casing ricocheted off the kitchen’s countertops, clanging and ringing. The hiss of dying electronics whizzed and popped until it fizzled out. Hatch looked up from his hiding place. What remained of the two drones was scattered across the kitchen.
He paused at the obliterated doorway. From across the alley, he could hear Transport reinforcements landing on the roof of the armory. It would be secured now, and Mary either dead or in airtight custody. But his route to freedom was clear. One piece of good luck in an otherwise craptastic operation.
You should’ve listened to me, he thought petulantly, angry with her for being lost to him. Angry with Transport for existing. And feeling an impotent fury at himself for failing Mary now.
Hatch took a deep breath. Then another. He sprinted for the manhole, pausing only long enough to lower himself down without injury. Once below, he angled his gaze toward the facility where his former lover and commanding officer remained, dead or alive. Leaving her there was the single hardest decision he had ever made in his life.
Another day, he promised.
Guns and Butter and Bourbon
“You have to let us go back,” Hatch insisted. It was barely dawn, and he’d rushed to Colonel Neville’s office to make his report as soon as Alpha Squad, Pusher, and Logan had returned to Little Gibraltar.
After field dressing Bracer’s wound and assessing Hawkeye’s condition as superficial, they’d waited in the sewer till close to dawn, hiding with their prize of twenty-four fully powered laser rifles. Hatch had paced nervously, itching to effect an immediate rescue. Logan and Stug had restrained him with logic and muscle, respectively. The pre-dawn return on the Pittsburgh had been quiet and uncomfortable. They all hated leaving her behind.
Now Neville was attempting to restrain him with the military chain of command. “You seem to forget, Lieutenant. This isn’t a democracy. And one officer is not worth risking TRACE resources and personnel to recover. No matter who she might be.”
Colonel Neville’s tone was serious, perhaps even sincere, if Hatch stretched his imagination. But to Hatch it sounded like he was reading from a field manual, specifically from the chapter titled “How to Console Troops When Their Commander Has Been Lost.” Just one more example of O-ba-di-ah’s placing form over substance and calling it leadership.
“In a way, she got what she deserved,” the colonel muttered. “I’ve told her before about being impetuous. About not consulting with me before running off half-cocked. Had she done so, perhaps we could’ve had a more positive outcome.”
It
was all Hatch could do to stay on his side of Neville’s desk. He wanted to rip the colonel’s self-important head off his pompous shoulders.
This is not the time for an I-told-you-so lecture, you insensitive ass.
“Nevertheless, I must admit, her negotiations with Logan and his people achieved their primary goal. We have our food back, and a protected supply line besides. I can’t say I trust those cannibals as far as I can throw them, but they do have a vested interest in maintaining our good will. For now, the situation is stable.” His pronouncement sounded like he was already making his report to the SOMA. No doubt he was trying out the way the words sounded to determine how best to represent his own contribution to the victory.
“Glad to hear you agree with the captain’s plan,” said Hatch. The words were neutral enough, but his tone betrayed him. It was pregnant with words unspoken, most of them consisting of four letters.
Neville regarded him impassively. “I know you think I’m an idiot,” he said, noting the amused, then quickly hidden expression on Hatch’s face. “I am not, sir. And you’d best remember that. Without that Amish reject to insulate you, I suspect we’ll be seeing more of each other in campaigns to come.”
Maybe I could just strangle your chicken neck and save us both the trouble, spat Hatch in his head. Hearing Mary called a reject made his calf muscles twitch. His fingers longed to feel Neville’s windpipe crushing beneath them. He was glad Stug wasn’t here. They’d both be in front of a firing squad by daylight tomorrow if he were.
“You’re dismissed,” finished Neville. “And send in Lieutenant Mason.”
“Trick?”
“Lieutenant Mason,” growled Neville. “I hate those bloody nicknames you people use. So damned unprofessional. Yes, send him in here. When he walks out again, you will salute him as the new commanding officer of B Company.”
Hatch was stunned, and Neville took some satisfaction in putting the cocky lieutenant back on his heels. Nodding, Hatch left the colonel’s office on auto-pilot.
Shortly after oh-four-hundred, Trick and the rest of B Company had walked into Little Gibraltar with three wagonloads’ worth of food supplies, to the cheers and accolades of everyone in camp. If the fort’s soldiers weren’t awake when the food arrived, they were soon after. The news, and the aromas, spread quickly.
Hatch considered recent events as he walked to the Rock Slide, his skin tingling with shock. Though Neville hadn’t initially been happy with the arrangement the QB had made with the Wild Ones, he soon warmed to the idea of having guaranteed food shipments from the Zone guarded by allies armed with advanced weaponry. And since Bravo Squad had led the escort that had brought the missing foodstuffs home, its lieutenant was to receive Caesar’s head wreath from Neville as a reward. Hatch had no doubt Trick hadn’t sought that reward for himself, and Hatch had no ambition to command Bestimmung Company either; seeing anyone other than Mary in that role had never occurred to him. To any of them. The very thought of it made his stomach twist. Then he recalled Mary’s crack to Trick before they’d left on their mission.
I expect that brevet rank might be made permanent.
If only her skills at predicting the future could’ve helped her see a way out of that armory, could’ve brought her home again. The ache in his stomach moved into his chest.
As expected, he found Trick in the Slide, having drinks with his squad. As if from a distance, Hatch watched himself tell Trick that Neville wanted to see him. Mason’s face became concerned. He asked why, but Hatch just shrugged.
Trick excused himself, downed the shot in front of him, and shuffled off with a worried look on his face.
Hatch spied an empty corner table. Driven by a box fan, a hanging bulb, burned out and neglected, squeaked overhead like a pendulum.
Perfect.
His feet took him there and he ordered two fingers of bourbon from the private serving as a waitress. It was still early in the morning, but the Slide stayed open twenty-four hours a day. And whatever the time on the clock, it wasn’t too early for a drink or six. Especially on this day. Before the private turned away, Hatch ordered a second shot to go with the first. She gave him a look but moved away to bring him his drinks.
After he’d drunk himself eight fingers deep, she brought him the bottle. Not long after, he felt a presence standing over him.
“Anyone drinking that?”
Hatch pulled his eyes up slowly to find Logan. The salvager motioned again at the still-full second shot sitting across the table from Hatch.
“I could use a drink,” Logan hinted.
“Then pour yourself one. But leave that one alone.”
Motioning to the private to bring him a shot glass, Logan sat on Hatch’s right. The unclaimed shot occupied a third spot all its own.
“How are you doing?”
“Better by the minute!” said Hatch, downing two more fingers.
The waitress quickly dropped off a glass and retreated. Logan was quiet as he poured himself a drink.
“I see you’re feeling better.” Hatch’s voice was bitter.
The ex-spy chose to ignore the tone. “Yes, thanks. Mostly concussive damage. The ride back on the Pittsburgh did me some good, I think.”
“Well, bully for you.”
Logan was not a man to take crap from anyone. But he figured Hatch had some cause to be angry with him. Toward him, anyway. In the lieutenant’s eyes, the mission to secure the guns had cost Hatch his captain. And something more, acknowledged Logan, recalling the non-conversation he’d had with the QB as they churned their way up the Susquehanna. He downed his own shot of bourbon.
“Well, I just wanted to say how much I appreciate . . . how much her sacrifice will mean—”
“Sacrifice?”
Damn it, thought Logan. Hatch wasn’t slurring yet, but the bourbon was definitely working in him. Got here too late.
“You say that like she’s dead,” Hatch said.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what you impl—impl—it’s the way it sounded!”
Logan backed off. Now wasn’t the time. “I chose my words poorly.”
“You goddamned sure did.”
Pouring another drink, the salvager downed it quickly before rising. “I appreciate the drink,” he said.
“Take your guns and piss off.”
Logan walked away. Hatch resumed his descent into a hole, clawing his way there two fingers at a time.
“He’s been like that for nearly an hour, Sergeant,” said the private-waitress. Hatch lay sprawled across the table, snoring. The empty bourbon bottle lay on its side. The shot for their absent comrade sat undisturbed. “The brunchers will be coming in soon . . .” Her need to be rid of a drunken officer was clear and immediate.
“I’ll take it from here, Private. Do me a favor and don’t add this to your list of bar stories.”
“No problem, Sarge. There’s hardly been anyone in here all morning anyway,” she said. “I’ll clean up. What do I do with that shot? It’s been sitting there for hours. I’m afraid to touch it, frankly.”
Stug grunted. “Drink it. No sense letting it go to waste.”
“No, I don’t think so,” she replied, gathering up the bottle and empty shot glasses. “That wouldn’t be right. I’ll just throw it out.”
“Suit yourself.”
He shot a questioning look at Bracer. The machine gunner had come into the barracks after checking on Hawkeye, when word had arrived they were needed at the Slide. He’d had to roust Stug from slumber, always a dangerous mission.
“Best to let him sleep it off,” said Bracer. “Want me to help you carry him?”
“Naw. You’ve got a bum leg. Get the door, though. Don’t want to chance waking him up by bumping his noggin.”
Stug moved around behind Hatch and lifted him out of the chair. He thought about slinging him over his shoulder, combat-rescue style, but figured he’d just end up with Hatch’s vomit down the back of his fatigues. So instead h
e cradled the lieutenant and carried him in his massive arms.
After the dim, artificial light of the bar, Stug had to squint against the late morning sun. He moved across the assembly ground, tired but strong. Bracer walked with a half-limp next to him. The camp was fully awake now, bustling as usual, but with renewed energy now that the food supply had once more been secured. Crowds of two and three stopped what they were doing and watched as Stug walked past, lugging his lieutenant.
“Hey, Sarge! Hatch have too much to drink? Must run in the squad!”
Stug had the absurd thought that even insults sounded nicer with a Spanish accent.
“Not today, Garza,” he said under his breath. The rest of the company hadn’t yet been briefed about the QB, though the rumor mill was grinding at high speed. Stug had other things on his mind, so he let Garza be a horse’s ass. Just this once.
Bracer peeled off, but Stug brought him back with a quick, “Let it go.” The last thing they needed was Bracer court-martialed for striking his superior. They’d need every man they could get. And so with some effort, they ignored the laughter behind them.
Once inside the barracks, the handful of soldiers still there at this time of the morning made way. Bracer helped Stug lay out Hatch on his bunk, pull off his boots, and cover him up.
“Draw those shades,” ordered Stug. “Everybody else, out.”
“Right.” The room cleared as Bracer made the rounds, pulling the shades down on the half a dozen windows they usually kept open this time of year. Barracks get rank with sweat, and fast. In the fall, at least, the wind swept the air clean and kept the interior cool at the same time. This morning, though, the breeze coming off the Susquehanna was downright nippy. Stug pulled an extra blanket off the shelf.
“What now, Sarge?”
“Now? Now we go get her. How long will Hawkeye be down?”
“A day, max. Mostly bruising from the omni-lens. The doc’s insisting he stay in the infirmary for at least twenty-four hours.” Bracer hesitated, but felt like it needed to be said. Just so they were clear. “I heard that Neville put the kibosh on a rescue attempt,” he said quietly.
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