Counterstrike: The Separatist Wars Book 2

by Thomas Webb

  “We’re, uh, not sure if it’s him?” Hale replied. “The prisoner made some demands, then Valkyrie insisted on interrogating him alone.”

  Zombie didn’t answer right away. He could almost feel the anger through the comm wave. “Hey—she’s a big girl,” Hale added, using the same logic Shane had forced on him earlier. Somehow, it lacked the same potency Shane had brought to bear when she’d said it.

  “Try again boss,” Zombie shot back. “That’s the exact same shit she told me earlier. So what you’re saying is that you left her down there to interrogate a potentially deadly Separatist terrorist? Alone?”

  “She can handle herself, Two.” Now Hale was really on the defensive.

  “What if it is him?” Zombie asked. “you know that bastard’s slipperier than a damned Velusian sea snake.”

  “Hey,” Sanders broke in. When Hale and Anesu had left the impromptu walk, he’d doubled back to find them. “If you’re all done arguin’ now? Maybe we can get back to business?”

  “I gotta go help Razor Three and Four with these files,” Zombie snapped. “Christ in the Stars, Hale.” She added that last bit for good measure, breaking all kinds of communications protocol in the process before she clicked off.

  Hale glanced in the direction of the admin building. “That could have gone better,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Sanders said. “Ya think?”

  “I heard only one side of the conversation,” Anesu said. “But I might have advised you to handle it a bit differently.” She did a poor job of hiding her amusement.

  “It’s tough when you got a team sometimes,” Sanders said, softening the blow. “From what I’ve seen though? You got your problems, sure—but your team’s solid. Looks like they function a sight better ’n most.”

  Hale found himself at a loss for words. “Thanks Sanders,” he finally managed. He hadn’t expected to be saved from his Two IC by Sanders and be blessed with some of the former Delta operator’s wisdom, all within the span of a couple of minutes.

  “Don’t mention it,” the retired tier one operator said.

  “How about you give us a tour of the base defenses?” Hale suggested. He wasn’t feeling much like looking at holo files, all of a sudden. Especially if he had to do it standing next to a pissed off, in-love, former Green Beret.

  “You got it,” Sanders said. “’Boss.’”

  He and Anesu laughed. Hale tried and failed to not crack a smile.

  Full dark fell over the Kingdom, the very last vestiges of daylight having blinked out behind the mountains on the horizon. A growler crept past the three of them as they walked. Four armored mercenaries sat inside.

  “So what can you tell me about this place?” Hale asked.

  “Not much you don’t already know,” Sanders replied. “We got some interesting involuntary residents here. A few names you may have heard of.” Sanders shrugged. “Probly a bunch you haven’t. The Kingdom was kind enough to let us host them all here.”

  Hale understood. “By ‘us,’ you mean The Company?” ‘The Company’—better known as the United Nations Intelligence Agency.

  Sanders nodded. “It’s an informal, off-the-books type arrangement.”

  “One that I have been asked to help maintain,” Anesu said.

  Anesu Chewasa was a remarkable woman. Fierce, well-trained, a natural born shooter, and a natural born fighter. She was also an excellent journalist, and apparently one with a nose for a good story. That was what had really gotten them all here in the first place. She also happened to be stunningly beautiful, a fact which Hale seemed to constantly be reminded of.

  “This guy in custody,” Hale began. “How’d you get hold of him anyway?”

  “Funny story,” Sanders said. “He actually got caught crossing the border. Came in real easy, and eventually admitted to the interrogators that he had deep Separatist ties. Simple as it was to pick him up, was almost like he turned himself in.”

  Hale stopped in his tracks. “Like he turned himself in?” The wheels in his mind began to spin. Something wasn’t right. Why would a hardened Separatist fighter just waltz into the Kingdom and turn himself in? And less than ten klicks from a UNIA black site? A hollow pit opened in Hale’s stomach.

  Shane.

  “This is all wrong,” Hale began. “We’ve got to head back down to—“

  Something at the front gate exploded with a boom. Hale dropped to the sand, taking Anesu with him. Sanders got low, already moving and shouting orders to move to anyone within earshot.

  The three exchanged looks.

  “That sounded like an SFC!” Hale shouted.

  Two more explosions rocked the compound’s defenses. The guard towers to either side of the now-buckled gate toppled, collapsing in on themselves in fiery twin explosions.

  “That gate ain’t gonna hold!” Sanders said.

  Hale glanced at the pulse pistol strapped to his thigh and frowned, wishing he was carrying something a little more potent. All around them, alarms began to sound throughout the compound. Soldiers and mercenaries ran toward the half-blown gate, struggling to get into their armor and grabbing weapons as they moved. Hale watched as three technicals pulled up to the gap between the buckled peristeel gates. Separatist fighters leapt from the technicals, opening up with small arms through the gaps in the prison site’s defenses. Compound personnel raced to the breach, ready to defend. Hale drew his sidearm and fired at the fighters storming through the fallen gate. His lone pulse pistol against a group of heavily armed fighters produced much the same effect as a water hose dousing a house fire.

  “Cover!” Hale shouted, darting ahead. Behind him Anesu and Sanders had their own sidearms out, firing and giving what little protection they could. Hale led the way, racing from point to point, moving closer to the oncoming onslaught of enemy soldiers. Hale, Anesu, and Sanders leapfrogged from building to building, cover to cover, with Hale finally taking position behind a growler parked near the gates.

  Hale occupied the lead spot near the front tire. Anesu landed in next to him, then Sanders covered their six. Hale clocked the enemy vehicles; modified civilian transports, or technicals, with mounted plasma cannons. He eyed the enemy soldiers, a mix of humans and several others of different planetary origins. He took in their clothing, armor, and weapons.

  “Separatists,” he muttered.

  There was more bad news. The enemy fighters were mounting a strong offensive, with several manning the plasma cannons. The guns opened up, unleashing bursts of superheated matter, cutting the prison’s defenders down like wheat before the scythe.

  The gate, unable to withstand any more punishment, collapsed with a shudder and the screech of failing peristeel. All three technicals rolled right up to the opening. The plasma guns, their operators safe behind armored shielding, kept up the onslaught on the prison.

  The UNIA black site guards were a motley mix of ex-UN military, UNIA Special Activities Division, and hired mercenaries. Hardened troops all, but without heavy weaponry they were no match for the Separatist’s mounted plasma cannons. A defender dropped not a meter from Hale, the super-heated plasma leaving gaping, sizzling holes in her body.

  “Gimme cover!” Hale shouted. He reached out and grabbed the wounded woman, dragging her clear of the enemy’s fire.

  Hale held the mercenary in one arm, gripping his pistol with the other hand. “Hang on,” he told her. The woman’s eyes were losing focus. “Razor One to all Razor elements,” he said, trying his comms. “Come in, Razor team.”

  Nothing.

  The woman gasped and died right where she lay, cradled in Hale’s left arm. She wasn’t a comrade in arms. He hadn’t even known her. But they’d fought on the same side, however briefly, and he’d never grow accustomed to seeing friends and allies die. Hale compartmentalized, pushing down a torrent of emotions and storing them away to process later. He coldly took the woman’s rifle and sighted in on an approaching Separatist. The enemy soldier became nothing more than a target. An obstacle
between Hale and his team making it out of this alive. Hale scoped the man and squeezed. There was the spark of the round flying. The invader dropped in a puff of red dust, illuminated by the firelight from the burning husks of the guard towers.

  Hale shifted his fire to the lead technical and its plasma cannon. His well-placed shots simply bounced off the armored shielding.

  “Dammit!” he swore. They’d lost the high ground when the guard towers fell, and the enemy possessed vastly superior firepower. How the hell were they going to stop those plasma cannons? Then, through the smoke and flames, Hale spotted something beautiful—an APC. An armored personnel carrier, parked right near the compound’s entrance.

  He looked from Anesu to Sanders and pointed at the APC. “You two thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I think so,” Sanders said. “Be tough to make it there past them plasma cannons, though.” Sanders raised his pistol, sighted in and cooked off several rounds.

  “We can do it,” Anesu said, picking her shots wisely and reserving ammo.

  Sanders squeezed off two more, dropped his pule mag and reloaded. He smiled at Hale and jerked his head towards the APC. “Man with the rifle leads the way.”

  “Fair enough,” Hale said. He looked at Anesu.

  She nodded, her dark eyes resolute. “I am ready when you are.”

  Hale flashed her a smile. “On your go,” he told Sanders.

  “Go,” Sanders said, wasting no time.

  Hale leapt from behind the growler, his hips forward and keeping low, his pulse rifle doing the talking as he assaulted his way toward the APC. Plasma fire sizzled into the dirt at his feet, scoring the sand to glass as it burned in. Hale dove and rolled the last few meters, slammed into the side of the APC, sighted in and resumed fire.

  “Covering!” he shouted, not taking his eyes from the front.

  Anesu raced gazelle-like across the space, coming in fast next to Hale. She got her pistol up and signaled Sanders, covering him as he joined them.

  Hale looked up at the armored personnel carrier. “Can you drive this thing?” he asked Sanders.

  Sanders’ eyes never left his sights as he pulled the trigger in a smooth, rhythmic pattern. A slight shake of his head signaled his answer. “Nope.”

  Hale swore. “What kind of dumbass idea was this, then?”

  Anesu rolled her eyes. She holstered her weapon and began to climb up onto the vehicle. “Never send a man to do a woman’s work,” she said. “I have this. The two of you just cover me.”

  “No freakin’ way,” Sanders said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Is there anything that woman can’t do?”

  “She’s full of surprises,” Hale uttered.

  Anesu climbed up onto the APC’s massive tire, then leapt upward and grabbed the edge of the vehicle’s roof. She pulled herself up and over, keeping flat and low as she crawled across the roof toward the vehicle’s hatch. Hale watched her release the latch and slither inside headfirst.

  There was shouting as more enemy fighters poured into the gap the gates had once occupied. Hale and Sanders leaned out, concentrating their fire on a knot of Separatists pushing through. Hale had the satisfaction of seeing several drop. Then the mounted plasma canon swiveled in their direction.

  “Back!” he yelled.

  He and Sanders leapt away as the plasma rounds smacked into the APC.

  “How long you think we got?” Sanders asked.

  “Not long,” Hale said, breathing hard. A few seconds later the APC’s hydrogen engine fired up with a roar.

  “Standby,” Sanders told Hale. “Sounds like we’re a go.”

  The APC shuddered and began to inch forward. The vehicle lumbered ahead, with Hale and Sanders using it as moving cover. Soon they were joined by a group of men, women, and off-worlders—the black site prison’s remaining defending force. The APC approached the shattered gate, positioning itself near where the lead technical had stopped outside.

  Sanders holstered his pulse pistol, trading it for the rifle of a fallen mercenary. He grinned. “Looks like we’re about to get us a fireworks show.”

  The APC-mounted rail gun rotated, until it faced the lead technical dead on. The Separatists had busied themselves firing on the base’s defenders. Too late, the attacking terrorists realized what was happening. The APC rail gun resounded, lighting up the first technical in a blue, hydrogen-fuel explosion. The vehicle rose from the earth, flipping once and coming to rest in an upside down, burning heap.

  “Yes!” Sanders said, clenching a fist. It was the most emotion Hale had seen the man exhibit since they’d met him.

  A cry went up from the defenders as Anesu unleashed another volley, destroying the second technical. As the flames burned the defenders rallied, pushing forward behind the protective armor of the APC. The last enemy technical, witnessing the fate of its partners, turned tail and fled.

  Hale watched it go, his relief quickly mixing with suspicion. “Any drone assets on hand here?” he asked Sanders.

  “Generally yes,” Sanders said, his eyes shifting around the area. “But you know well as I do the comms were the first thing to go. The drones operate on the same wave system. So they’re down, too.”

  “Right,” Hale acknowledged. All around, the occupants of the base were rushing to and fro. Some moved to secure the gate. Some saw to the wounded, while others raced to extinguish the flames. Hale looked up at the armored vehicle. “You think they knew there were APC’s here?”

  Sanders shook his head. “Doubt it. Wouldn’t make much sense to attack if they did? I’ll admit, though—it does seem a might out of place.”

  “Yeah,” Hale agreed, staring at the flames. “Think about it. Why would they hit this place unprepared? How would they even know it was here if they hadn’t scouted it? Technicals and shoulder fired pulse cannons are no match for APC’s. Even with the plasma guns.”

  “Shit. Comms were the first thing to go.” Sanders repeated it to himself. He’d just come to the same realization Hale had.

  “Yeah,” Hale said. “This was coordinated.” He looked at the hulk of twisted metal burning in front of the gates. His thoughts turned to Shane, and the mystery prisoner in the underground cell. “We need to get to Shane. I think we’ve just been had.”

  -10-

  Once, when he’d been a young case officer, Silvio Lima screwed up.

  Badly.

  They’d been tracking an Andarian drug mule, back before the Separatist Wars began. The Andarian had given Silvio, a new officer at the time and still as green as spring grass, the slip. Cynthia had been beyond angry. He remembered a great deal of shouting and yelling, and some broken items in his boss’s then-modest office. That feeling of being scolded and called on the carpet—that lowly, sinking feeling—was something he’d never forgotten.

  Now it felt like the shoe was on the other foot. What Cynthia had done by placing his people into harm’s way, getting them involved with ULS, and now the attack on the facility in Kush? It was . . . unforgivable. Now, it was Silvio’s turn to be, as the North Americans said, pissed.

  He approached the meeting site, working hard but failing miserably at cooling his raging temper. He stopped at the outstretched hand of a suited UNIA security officer. Lima tapped his foot as he was frisked and searched, impatient to be cleared. After a nod from the guard posted outside the park clearing, Lima approached Cynthia’s turned back. The former UNIA field operative and case officer moved at a fast clip, eager to begin his meeting. When he reached the wrought iron park bench where Cynthia sat, he stopped.

  Evergreen trees framed the sitting area. A pond stretched out before them, the morning mists moving off the water like smoke. Cynthia sat on the edge of the bench. At her feet, a group of ducks eagerly awaited the next morsel to fall from her hands. Lima stood to the side of the bench, waiting. She never averted her gaze from the ducks.

  “Thank you for agreeing to a meet with me,” Cynthia Brentforth, Assistant Director of the United Nations Intelligence
Agency, said.

  Despite Lima’s anger, he’d already prepared his chosen words with care. When he saw her sitting there, calmly feeding the Central Park water fowl, those prepared words flew from his mind like ashes in a stiff breeze.

  “What the hell just happened with my people Cynthia?” he demanded. The heads of Cynthia’s security detail snapped at the sound of his raised voice, their hands whipping to their sidearms.

  Cynthia held up a single digit, and the security detail’s hands returned to their normal, front-clasped positions. She didn’t seem bothered in the least at Lima’s outburst. She didn’t even blink. A fact which enraged the normally cool Lima all the more.

  “That prison facility housed a very valuable Separatist operative,” Cynthia said. She sprinkled a few more oats onto the ground. Several ducks waddled over, devouring the treats with gusto.

  Heat emanated from Lima’s brow. Sweat trickled down the crevice of his back, in spite of the cool of the morning. His heart threatened to beat from his chest. “Is that all you have to say to me?” he asked.

  Cynthia neither smiled nor frowned, maintaining the maddeningly neutral façade she was famous for. “I realize you’re upset, Silvio. I get it. Believe me—I do. But I’ll need you to mind your temper. Please keep your voice down.” Cynthia fixed him with a stare. “I brought you up in the agency. I supported you when you left, gifting your company with a very lucrative UNIA contract. I trust I don’t need to remind you which of us is the employer and which is the employee?”

  Lima bit back the retort he wanted to give. “I have not forgotten,” he said through clenched teeth. “You know damned well that you owe me and my team some answers.”

  Cynthia looked off into the distance, gazing across the pond. Beyond was the rest of the park, and further beyond that the city itself. Both were still shrouded in early-morning mist. She nodded. “I don’t disagree, Silvio.” She indicated the bench next to her. “Please,” she said. “Have a seat.”