by Jamie Sawyer
The Independence would be anchored in high orbit; observing the objective and our progress. She was fitted with the best in stealth tech – hopefully enough to evade the Directorate’s counter-surveillance. The orbital comms rig – the satellite to which Jenkins referred – had been blasted to space junk an hour ago. There was plenty of debris circling Capa V, and so the ground forces were unlikely to have read much into the loss of their comms.
Even so, I scrolled over the global map of Capa V. Our objective was in the south, and a few thousand klicks north was another base: largely uninhabited, according to surface scans. Further still was a refinery platform, protruding from a frozen sea.
“Going to have to watch for activity from those outposts,” I said. Something about them made me feel uneasy. “The idea that they could mount a response to our incursion can’t be ruled out.”
Jenkins pulled a face. “Apparently both are automated. Command says that they aren’t of tactical significance.”
“I’ve heard that before.” I keyed a command on the console, updated the tactical brief. “I want Independence to keep eyes on those outposts at all times.”
“Affirmative,” Jenkins agreed. “As we’re expecting this to be a live exfiltration operation, Scorpio Squadron will be providing air support and pilots.”
She glanced over at the flyboys, across the tac-display. Lieutenant James and his team were already skinned up, looking every bit the part of Alliance Aerospace Force pilots. They were using next-generation simulants. Those were gene-engineered skins designed to be lived in, replicas of human bodies with enhanced capabilities and response times. The trade-off to looking real was that the bodies were not as strong or durable as combat-sims. Even now, I’d never actually seen James’ real body.
“We’ll be dropping in MX-11 Jaguar heavy dropships,” he said. “Lazarus Legion and Baker’s Boys will be on Scorpio One; the Vipers and the Raiders on Scorpio Two. The third and fourth Jaguars – Scorpio Three and Four – will be empty. They’ll be available for evacuation of any recovered personnel. Once the ground pounders drop, all dropships will remain on-site for close air support.” He waved at the station map. “The Jags have anti-personnel rockets and heavy slug-throwers. That should keep the Directorate heads down until you search those buildings.”
Air support was likely to be the key to the success of this mission. In the event that we found prisoners, it would allow us to get people off Capa, but also provide some shock-and-awe. If the Directorate were caught by surprise, a couple of dozen Banshee anti-personnel missiles would cause quite a stir: persuade them that a much larger strike force was inbound.
“Just try not to leave us behind this time,” Jenkins said.
James looked affronted.
“What?” Jenkins said, in mock-ignorance. “You have form, jockey. Just sayin’ is all…”
“All right, people,” I said, ending the discussion. I didn’t want this briefing to be derailed. Over the last few weeks, Jenkins had vociferously argued that James was the only reason we were out here. Maybe she was right, but dwelling on it didn’t change things. “Let’s do this—”
Captain Ostrow burst into the briefing room, jostling himself into a place at the tactical display. He scowled bitterly.
“I’d rather that you hadn’t started the briefing without me,” he said.
“Sorry,” Jenkins said, “but we’ve finished without you too.”
Ostrow was the Military Intelligence officer assigned to the Independence, and as such he was technically supposed to sanction every operation that we conducted in Directorate territory. According to our mission parameters, we needed him to endorse that we had “just cause” for each mission: that we weren’t acting without our military authority. He was a genuine pain in the ass.
“Funny how that worked out,” Mason said, smiling.
“I’ve been looking over this intel,” said Ostrow, “and I’ve got to say, I’m not convinced. This is the third target you’ve identified this week—”
“The third potential,” I said, firmly. I could use their own language against them, if Mili-Intel wanted to play it that way. “Which means that it could be an actual.”
“It could be a mining station,” Ostrow countered. “It’s just as likely. And this supposed intelligence chatter could be explained by movement of contraband, of arms or warheads…” He shook his head. “The board is a no-go on this operation. It’s a red signal.”
The room settled into an agitated quiet, troopers waiting for my response. Their concern wasn’t necessary. I had absolutely no intention of backing down; not on this or any other operation in Directorate space. The bastards were going to pay for what they’d done to us, and we were going to get our people back.
“I’ve read the intelligence files too,” I said, “and I’m approving this mission. I’ll answer for it if I’m wrong.”
“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be conducting these operations yourself. You’re too damned close. He was your man. This is Directorate space, for Christo’s sake. Just our presence here is violating so many treaties that I don’t have time to list them…”
I heard the pinch in Ostrow’s response as he trailed off. He knew that he had gone too far. I saw Martinez’s face drop across the display, and held up a hand to warn him not to react.
“They killed thousands of servicemen and women in Damascus,” I said. “Did that violate any of your goddamn treaties?”
“I realise that,” Ostrow said, reading the anger that his comment had generated around the table. Even so, he gave it one last try: “That aside, this operation is not sanctioned by Command or the Pentagon. Resources are tight enough as it is; with the losses at Liberty Point, you should be on the frontline! This could trigger a major diplomatic incident—”
“Another major diplomatic incident,” I corrected.
“We’re already at DEFCON one—”
Jenkins looked at me expectantly. Eyes are windows into the soul, the old cliché went. When I looked into her eyes, I saw hurt and sadness: a combination of emotions that I knew only too well. There was no way I could add to that. Kaminski and Jenkins had been together, for what it was worth, and she had taken his loss worst of all.
“The mission is a go,” I said, ignoring Ostrow. “On my approval, if no one else’s. Strike force proceed as briefed.”
Every soldier in the briefing room slammed a hand to their hearts.
I looked down at my missing left hand.
Both hands on my plasma rifle, I faced the snowstorm. It was blindingly bright outside, and although I was wearing a full tactical helmet I fought the very human urge to put a hand up to my face to shield my eyes. The sky was a brilliant white – Rodonis Capa nothing more than an ineffectual blur on the horizon – and the snow was so intense that it was disorienting.
“Everybody out,” Jenkins yelled over the comm-net. Sealed inside our powered combat-suits, this was our only method of communication. “Go, go, go!”
I kicked off my boot-magnetics and armed my M95 plasma rifle. The Trident Class V suits were insulated and carried full life support, but even wrapped in that battle-tech the cold hit me immediately. The Directorate’s nickname for the world – Cold Death – seemed more than apt. I felt the pull of Capa’s gravity: the dropship had been gradually moving into the world’s gravity well since we’d broken orbit. A surge of combat-drugs – a cocktail especially designed to keep me killing – hit my bloodstream.
As planned, Scorpio One had landed on top of a low, flat building – a hangar of some sort. The other teams started to call in to Jenkins; meeting the same level of resistance. The Raiders were pinned down a couple of hundred metres south, in one of the open yards between structures, and the Vipers were taking heavy fire beside a garage in the east—
Blam!
A lucky round breached my null-shield and I felt the slug pop against my shoulder. It bounced off my combat-suit armour plating, but it still hurt.
“Fuck!” I
yelled, gritting my teeth.
The ablative plate was good but, as demonstrated by the three dead sims underfoot, given enough kinetic fire eventually we’d go down like any other skin.
“You okay, sir?” Mason asked.
“Try not to get shot,” I said. “Hurts like a bitch.”
“Area is hot,” came the voice of an Independence observer, watching our progress from orbit. “Advise immediate relocation from that site, Lazarus. Multiple hostiles closing on your position.”
“Lazarus Actual copies.”
To describe the theatre as “hot” was a significant understatement. Fire slid by all around us, from both the roadways below and guard-posts liberally sprinkled throughout the compound. Most of it was small-arms fire – I guessed assault rifles and machine guns – but it was hard to tell in these conditions.
Barely visible through the half-light of the snowstorm, my tactical helmet identified the three other dropships. The Jaguars were big and heavy: hulls a dark grey, with bloated crew cabins and stubby wings. They were lifters, not fighters, and carried only light armament. The precise, planned formation in which they were supposed to land hadn’t survived contact with Capa V, let alone the enemy.
I took a decision. “Make for safe altitude, Scorpio Squadron.”
“Baker’s Boys have been assigned the landing pad,” Jenkins said. “If the Raiders take the—”
In my peripheral vision, I saw a flash of light. Immediately, I identified it as a laser weapon: a mounted cannon of some sort, big enough to generate a searing beam of ruby energy.
Scorpio Three was a couple of hundred metres to my left. She’d been skimming low over a concrete block, empty and ready for evacuees, access ramp grazing the roof.
The beam panned, like a searchlight, and hit the ship’s underside.
“Down!” I shouted.
The wreckage of Scorpio Three went down fast, VTOL engines failing, and the shock of the exploding Jag dropship made the hangar shake. It landed somewhere in the middle of the compound, throwing up a plume of black smoke. Directorate troops – identifiable only as flashes of heat in the storm – began to move on the site.
James cursed over the comm. Scorpio One fired off a couple of Banshee missiles, unsuccessfully seeking to chase the source of the attack, and lifted skyward.
“Scorpio One pulling out—”
“Copy that. Two has evaded further anti-air fire…”
“… Tagging multiple tangos on east wall. Looks like a laser cannon—”
The other ships started to do the same: hulls occasionally flickering with incoming small-arms fire.
If we wanted to stay operational, we needed to get moving.
“Legion, move on that satellite dish,” I ordered. “All other squads, take immediate cover.”
I hunkered down behind the light cover and started to plan our next move. Spy-feeds from the stealthship that had scoped the outpost were superimposed onto the interior of my helmet face-plate, demonstrating where we were supposed to be.
“Looked a lot smaller from orbit,” Martinez said, gruffly. “And when there weren’t people firing at us.”
“Do you get that a lot?” Jenkins asked, ducking back as a grenade exploded on the other side of the dish. Hot frag showered the area, sparked against our shields.
“They weren’t supposed to know that we were coming…” Mason said.
“Devil’s eyes are everywhere,” Martinez said with a shrug.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Getting these buildings pacified and searched; that’s what we’re here for.”
The outpost was situated between two mountains, criss-crossed by gantries and metal catwalks that provided numerous defensive posts. The scant overground constructions were all snow- and ice-covered; metalwork made brittle by constant exposure to the elements.
Mason knelt beside me and reached into the deep snow with her gloved hand.
“So this is snow…” she said, almost wistfully. Although Mars was mostly terraformed, it was a planet without such a weather system. “I never thought that I’d get the chance to see it. Almost pretty.”
“If it wasn’t so fucking cold,” Martinez added. “Not like home at all. You ever heard of a simulant getting frostbite?”
“No,” said Mason, “but I think I’m about to be the first.”
“Not this again,” Jenkins said. “And for your information, this is most certainly not snow. This is an impression of snow. Check your wrist-comps for the chemical composition. There’s barely any H2O in it.”
“She’s from California,” I whispered, as I tried to get my bearings, decide where we should be heading. The cold was numbing, seemed to slow my thought-processes. “I guess she knows all about snow.”
“Better than these two off-worlders,” Jenkins said.
A stream of hard rounds hit the snow beside me.
“How many shooters we got out there?” I asked.
“I’d bet less than a hundred,” Jenkins said. “Fifty on it.”
“I’ll take that bet…” Martinez said.
“Button it, troopers,” I said. “We need to act fast. Drones away. Directive: identify and flag hostiles.”
The Lazarus Legion deployed their surveillance drones. A dozen autonomous flying units detached from our backpacks and sailed out into the snow. Even as I watched, two were caught by gunfire, exploding in a hail of sparks. The others began painting hostiles. Almost immediately, ghostly green figures appeared on my HUD. Ah, that’s better: I can see them. The drones sent back heartbeat, heat signatures, the whole deal. The info-streams combined with those of the rest of the strike force.
Martinez, back against the dish, clucked his tongue. “You owe me fifty, Jenkins.”
At least two hundred bodies were circling the compound, converging on our location.
Jenkins checked her plasma rifle. “Tell you what, I’ll pay you in Venusian dollars. That suit?”
“Fuck you, Jenkins,” Martinez said. The Venusian dollar wasn’t worth the unicard it was stored on. “You know I only bet in American notes.”
Mason sniggered. “Unmarked, so I hear.”
There…
Something on the drone feeds wasn’t right.
“You see that?” I asked the Legion, broadcasting the feed to their HUDs as well.
“It wasn’t on the orbital images…” Mason said.
The edge of the compound was a ragged, snow-bitten fence, studded with towers. One of those overlooked the landing pad: a tall, skeletal structure, with an armoured booth at the top. The sky illuminated as something up there activated, accompanied by a whip-crack every time that it fired. I magnified the image. A handful of Directorate troopers were manning the booth, firing a multi-barrelled laser weapon into the sky. I panned the drone’s position, took in the rest of the security fence. The other sentry towers were only half-completed: this was the only anti-air weapon that worked.
“No way that the flyboys will be able to pick up with that thing covering the strip,” said Jenkins. “That cannon will bring down anything approaching the landing pad.”
“Plan has changed,” I declared. “We’re moving on that tower before we commence the sweep.”
I opened the general channel. “This is Lazarus Actual; do you read me, Baker?”
“Affirmative,” Baker said. His suit transponder placed his team somewhere on the ground, but it was difficult to say precisely where. “We’re pinned down. Where’s our air support?”
“Fucked, is where,” I said. “You saw that ship go down. Intel was wrong. They have anti-air.”
He grunted. “Figures.”
“Keep your heads down and stay alive. We’re going to solve the problem.”
“Copy.”
I keyed the channel to Hooper. “Hooper, I want you to stay on overwatch.”
“Solid copy, Lazarus,” he said.
Hooper’s Raiders were already in position. The five-man team were equipped with M-23 Long Sight plasma rifles:
a proper sniper’s weapon. That was their speciality, and the team was known for it. I saw the flash of rifles from the tallest structure of the outpost; firing almost incessantly. Hooper’s team would provide covering fire to the other teams as they moved across the base.
Finally, Sperenzo’s Vipers.
“Sperenzo,” I said, “run harassment. Move towards your objective and wait for a lull in the fighting.”
“Not expecting that any time soon,” Sperenzo managed. “But we’ll try.”
“The Legion is going off plan. We’re taking out the guard tower so that Scorpio can provide air support. Lazarus out.”
CHAPTER TWO
RETRIBUTION UNREALISED
We dropped from the roof and made double-time across the compound.
Squads of soldiers materialised out of the snow: equipped with assault rifles, wearing snow-camo hard-suits. There were Directorate soldiers everywhere. Resistance was far heavier than we’d anticipated.
I vaulted over a concrete barricade: a tank-trap that had been set up in the middle of the road. Two Directorate troopers knelt behind it, hooked to a missile launcher. One acted as spotter, the other as operator. As we ambushed their location, the soldiers fell back, abandoning the launcher and firing pistols at us. Martinez caught both with his plasma rifle, slicing their hard-suits open with precise energy pulses.
I cursorily inspected the nearest body. The emblem of the People’s Army was printed on the soldier’s chest-plate. These were regular militia; a stock Directorate military garrison.
“Perimeter is ahead,” Jenkins declared.
A ragged black line rose out of the snow: a simple chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.
“Use those snow-crawlers as cover,” I ordered. “Move on my mark.”
We dashed as one. I slid into cover behind the crawlers; pumped my grenade launcher and fired two frag grenades out into the snow. I caught a Chino soldier, but several others retreated back into cover at the other end of the road.