Rage of Winter (Terran Strike Marines Book 2)

by Richard Fox

  Masha thrashed in the snow, trying to scream words Hoffman was sure weren’t pleasant.

  “’Bout goddamn time,” King said.

  “Secure the brute,” Hoffman said and then turned and ran back to where Max lay in the snow.

  Booker and Garrison knelt next to the wounded Marine, his armor open and the bare flesh of his torso exposed. Garrison held a light and heat lamp over his friend as the medic worked.

  Hoffman leaned over Garrison’s shoulder. Max’s left flank was a mess of dark blood and exposed muscle. His breath fogged in the light as shallow wheezing came out of his mouth. Booker’s medi-gauntlet was alive with holo projections and data as she ran a probe around the wound.

  “How’s it look?” Max asked through gritted teeth.

  “Like you caught a golden ticket back home for some extended leave,” Garrison said. “I’m sure it hurts a hell of a lot worse than it looks, you big wuss.”

  Max coughed and blood spattered Garrison’s visor. The breacher reared back slightly but didn’t wipe the blood away.

  “Sir, press here.” Booker grabbed the lieutenant by the wrist and guided his hand to just over Max’s sternum, setting his palm against the man’s bloody, slick skin.

  “Give me an update, Doc,” Hoffman said.

  “He’s got a through-and-through wound to his left abdominal cavity. Secondary damage to his right lower leg. His suit’s integrated tourniquet has the wound under control,” Booker said as she ran a line tipped with a small box from the side of her armor to a port on Max’s collarbone. “Time for some good stuff, Max.”

  She looked at the other two Marines. “Hold him down,” she said.

  “Ah…not the spike.” Max writhed from side to side. “I’m not hit that bad. I’m not! My wife hears I got the spike and—”

  Hoffman pressed against Max’s chest and put his other hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “On three,” Booker said.

  “It’s…not…” Max slurred, and Hoffman realized he was going into shock.

  “One!”

  There was a pneumatic snap and Max yelped as a needle broke through his armor and jabbed into his carotid artery. Fluid raced through the line connected to a reservoir of drugs within Booker’s armor and Max’s eyes lost focus.

  “I still need some help here, and a medevac,” Booker said, her normally cool voice laced with concern. She raised her gauntlet arm and surgical probes popped out of their housings.

  Garrison picked up Max’s smashed visor. “Um, Doc?”

  Booker let out a slow breath and holo fields popped up on the inside of her visor. She splayed out her gauntlet hand over Max’s wound and the probes reached into the bloody, torn flesh.

  “Medevac…now,” she said. Her fingers moved slightly and the probes sank deeper into Max.

  “OK,” Hoffman said, “we can have a Mule down from the Falstaff in…nineteen minutes.”

  “Shit!” Booker said as blood squirted out from the side of one of the probes. “He doesn’t have nineteen minutes. Call in the city’s ambulance now, sir, or I’ll lose him.”

  “What are you doing?” Garrison said, a tinge of fear in his voice.

  “I’ve got to do artery clamps. In the dark and the snow. Damn it, Max!” She took a small wand off her belt and the tip lit up, red-hot: a cauterizer.

  “I have to do this ugly,” she said as she sank the tool into Max’s exposed guts and red smoke wafted up.

  Garrison glared over her head at Medvedev. “Your ass is mine when we’re done saving my friend’s life.”

  Medvedev was still unconscious and bound with more restraints than the now-calm Masha.

  King stood next to Opal. The doughboy’s breastplate was open and deep-green blood dripped into the snow.

  “Max hurt?” Opal asked, heedless of his own injuries.

  “Got it! I think I got it. Blood flow has nearly stopped.” Booker rocked back on her knees and wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. Glancing at her forearm screen, she frowned. “Shit on a stick, his armor spalled. The bullet fractured his inner lining and he’s got fragments in his chest cavity. LT, we need that medevac ASAP.”

  Hoffman opened a channel on the local emergency defense network.

  “Doc,” came a voice from the tree line.

  Hoffman swung around and raised his rifle but relaxed when he saw Duke come out of forest. The sniper had his rifle across his back, and under one arm was his helmet, which he tossed at Hoffman. The visor had an ugly bullet strike at the upper edge of the visor glass.

  “They had help,” Duke said. A thin sheen of blood covered one side of his face from a cut on his forehead. “Countersniper about a kilometer out. Set up on a school roof.”

  “You OK?” King asked.

  “I’m embarrassed is what I am.” Duke took a can of chewing tobacco from his belt and tapped it into a palm. “Should’ve done my sector search a lot more carefully. Good thing the other guy had some local defense rifle and not a top-of-the-line model like Buffy.” He jerked his head toward his rifle and put a wad of dip between his cheek and gums. “Lowest bidder came through for once.” He kicked snow at his helmet.

  “What about the other sniper?” Hoffman looked back to the city lights.

  “Took him out,” Duke said. “Local police are already scraping him off the walls.”

  “There’s an Ibarran cell here,” King said. “Intel told us these two were the only Ibarrans here.”

  “Then we need to get the prisoners off world before their friends can mount a rescue,” Hoffman said.

  “OK,” Booker said. “Max is stable enough to move, but I need to get him to a trauma center.” She took a bundle from the small of her back and unrolled a tactical stretcher. “Help me load him and strap him down. We can use the pressure to hold some of these wounds closed.” The medic and Garrison went to work, and Max moaned in pain each time they tightened a strap on what looked like a complicated body bag.

  “Air ambulance is three minutes away,” Hoffman said, reading off a text alert on the inside of his visor. A second shuttle was also en route, one with a military call sign. He keyed a transmission to the support ship in orbit.

  “Falstaff, need an immediate dust off,” the lieutenant sent.

  “Negative, Hammer 6,” the captain said. “Orbit command just redirected us to investigate a graviton reading near the outer moon.”

  “Falstaff, this is a priority-one mission from Phoenix High Command. We have jackpot on two Ibarran operatives and the city is not cleared.” Hoffman looked over at Max, thinking ahead about how his team was about to be split up.

  “Well aware, Hammer,” the Falstaff officer said. “Mule 99 will transport you and the prisoners to Hadronus Spaceport. Sit tight there until we can make the trip back to local orbit. Then we’ll punch out back to Earth.”

  Hoffman watched as Booker gave Duke a quick once-over.

  “Time frame on that, Falstaff?”

  “Squat and hold, Marine. Falstaff out.” The line went dead.

  “Sir,” Booker said, hurrying over to the lieutenant. “I need to take Duke to get checked out. It’s his head wound. I noticed a gait disturbance when he walked out of the woods—unsteady on his feet and speech is a bit off—likely a concussion.”

  “Agreed. The only one who can take a bullet to the face and walk it off is Opal,” Hoffman said.

  “Gunney.” The lieutenant waved a hand over his head and pointed to a nearby clearing as he jogged toward the open area. “We’ve got birds inbound,” he said, switching to IR as he left the team behind. Hoffman removed a small cylinder the size of a pinkie off his belt, banged one end against his thigh, and tossed the strobe toward the tree line.

  “Adams should be doing that task, sir,” King said, his weapon still trained on Masha and Medvedev.

  “We’re shorthanded,” Hoffman said. “Casualties aren’t helping.”

  “When’s command going to give her back? Or replace her?”

  �
�We should be off clandestine ops once we hand over the Ibarrans.” Hoffman tossed out two more strobes, marking the landing zone for the approaching shuttles. “Then life can get back to normal.”

  An alert popped up on Hoffman’s visor: Max’s blood pressure was falling dangerously low. Booker raced back to his side and went back to work on him.

  “Come on, come on,” Hoffman muttered, looking toward the horizon. It was his duty to remain calm and in control, even as the cold pit in his stomach continued to grow. He’d lost doughboys during the Ember War. He didn’t want Max to be the first Marine he ever lost.

  Finally, running lights peeked through bare branches.

  “Duke, Booker, you’re on litter duty,” King said. “Stay on the medevac bird with Max. Rest of the team will provide security for the prisoners. We’ll link back up once the mission allows.”

  The rumble of approaching engines filled the air and a white-hulled ambulance shuttle hovered over the clearing.

  “Max, you hang in there,” Garrison said. “You need blood or someone to keep the nurses off you, I’ll be there soon as you call.”

  Hoffman raised both arms over his head and guided the shuttle down. Snow whipped up as Duke and Booker carried the wounded Marine to the open back ramp, where a team of medics was already waiting.

  Hoffman knew the statistics. Since he’d got Max into next-level care while he was still breathing, the chances he’d survive were near certain. But he was still worried about his Marines, still sure that his leadership had failed Max, the Marine’s wife, and all the children he had waiting for him at home.

  Chapter 2

  Hoffman removed his helmet and melting snow sloughed off the side, spattering against the Mule’s deck. The shuttle’s interior was cooler than his suit’s internal settings, but the brisk air was a nice reprieve after hours inside his helmet.

  Masha sat next to Hoffman, cuffed to the bench, her head still hooded and her chin resting against her chest. Her bodyguard was at the other end of the cargo hold, where King stood nearby with his rifle slung across his chest. Garrison looked after Opal, spraying the doughboy’s wounds with a saline solution.

  Still unconscious, Medvedev sported a hasty bandage over a cut on his face, and bruises mottled one side of his head.

  The oddly sweet smell of Opal’s blood was in the air. The bio-construct was largely immune to pain and infection, and the fluid that served as his blood was laced with large amounts of carbohydrates. Opal didn’t flinch as Garrison began suturing the doughboy’s skin together with a small device that resembled a pistol.

  Masha swayed from side to side and her shoulder brushed against Hoffman’s. She tapped the side of her foot against his armored boot, then pulled away. The lieutenant removed her hood and she blinked at him with ice-blue eyes. She looked over at her bodyguard, then stared daggers at Hoffman, her mouth working behind her muzzle.

  “He’s fine,” Hoffman said. “Got off lucky, if you ask me. Opal would’ve ripped his limbs off if he wasn’t human.”

  Masha’s nose crinkled and her eyes tightened with pain. The lieutenant unsnapped the muzzle and she opened her mouth to stretch sore muscles.

  “Your sniper’s dead,” Hoffman said. “Want to tell me who else you’ve got in Koensuu City and save the trouble of a long and unpleasant interrogation?”

  “We had one other asset on this planet.” Masha looked back at Medvedev.

  Hoffman chuckled. “Sure you do.”

  “Fine. The entire planetary defense force and all the police are Ibarran agents,” she said. “Release me now, hand over your weapons, and I’ll see that you’re well treated.”

  “Your lack of cooperation will go in my report,” Hoffman said.

  “You mention our first meeting in any of your reports?” she asked. She sat back and her demeanor changed. She relaxed, almost as if she were the person in charge. “Hot summer day on New Bastion. You, a Terran lap dog on a kill team order. Me, an agent just about to make her escape from a minor setback. Not many people have such an auspicious first encounter. Fate is the only explanation.”

  “You fouled up my team’s mission,” Hoffman said. “I thought you were a Terran POW. Had I known who you really were—or all the trouble you’d cause Earth and my team—I would’ve blown that air car the first chance I had.”

  “Don’t think I, or the Ibarra Nation, didn’t appreciate your help on New Bastion.” She gave him a quick smile. “Granted, having you and your devil mutts bothering me on subsequent operations has really lost its charm.”

  “You and the Ibarras are traitors to Earth,” Hoffman said. “Illegal colonies. Attacks on aliens. All that is coming to an end and you’re going to help.”

  “You think I’m going to give up the location of Navarre, our home world? Please. Lady Ibarra makes us better than that,” Masha said.

  “What were you doing in the cemetery?” Hoffman asked. “Why are you on Koen?”

  “Such a beautiful night.” She let her head tilt gently to one side. “You ever go walking in the moonlight? Brisk air gets the blood going.” One of her eyebrows danced.

  Hoffman shook his head.

  “Granted, I would have appreciated better company.” The spy looked over at Medvedev and she whistled a bird call.

  Medvedev jerked awake. He pulled at his restraints, his face flushing as his muscles fought against the short chains keeping his wrists bound on either side of his knees. Opal growled at Medvedev. King tapped a finger against his rifle’s trigger guard and Medvedev relaxed.

  “Wakey wakey.” Garrison put the cap back on his spray bottle and refastened Opal’s armor around his massive frame. He leaned close to Medvedev, almost eye to eye. “You didn’t kill Max. You tried, though. Managed to hurt him pretty good. You know he’s got kids? Wife back on Earth? You almost took their father away.”

  “I don’t care what happens to traitors,” Medvedev said.

  “Traitors?” Garrison grabbed Medvedev by his bloodstained coat. “You Ibarrans broke away from Earth. How are we the traitors, you ugly son of a—”

  “Ease up,” King said and Garrison let the bodyguard go.

  “You want to know a secret about your animal?” Medvedev raised his chin toward Opal.

  “Opal is a hell of a lot better man than you’ll ever be,” Garrison said.

  Medvedev mumbled something.

  “What was that?” Garrison leaned closer and Medvedev reared back and head-butted Garrison just below the left eye. Then Medvedev lashed out with a kick, launching Garrison against the wall.

  Opal roared, lurching across the deck with fists clenched and veins pulsing through the mottled skin of his neck and head. King got between the two and braced his rifle across Opal’s chest, then Hoffman sprang out of his seat and ran down the cargo bay.

  “Opal, stand down!” Hoffman said.

  “Opal crush!” Opal said as he reached over King’s shoulder toward Medvedev. The Ibarran stared into Opal’s eyes, a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

  “No hurt team! Opal crush!” Opal’s thick arms bumped Garrison—one hundred ninety-five pounds of muscle in addition to armor weight—off his feet while reaching for Medvedev. Garrison jumped up, wrapped his arms around Opal’s neck, and tried to pull the doughboy off-balance. The Mule lurched sideways from the shifting weight of the Strike Marines.

  “Settle down, kids,” growled the pilot, Lieutenant Sakkatos, over the intercom.

  Hoffman shouted orders as King shoved Opal back and Garrison slapped his hands over Opal’s eyes. Opal braced his arms next to his body and howled, a primal roar that stopped Hoffman in his tracks. He hadn’t heard Opal yell like that in…years.

  “Play the damn video, Gunney!” Garrison shouted.

  King flipped up a screen on his forearm and typed in a code.

  “Happy! Happy trees, right, Opie?” Garrison asked.

  “Trees…” Opal said as tension raced away from his shoulders.

  “I got one,” King said an
d held his gauntlet arm up in front of Opal’s face. Garrison took his hand away from the doughboy’s eyes.

  The angled screen displayed a dark room with a Caucasian man in out-of-fashion clothes holding a painting palette and standing before a blank canvas. His hair was like an alien, twice or maybe three times the size of his head, and tightly permed in the shape of an afro.

  The man in the video spoke. “Let’s do a little winter scene…” He began swiping a wide brush with phthalo blue across the canvas. “A little touch of alizarin crimson. Just a touch.” His words were gentle as he continued to narrate while he painted.

  Medvedev cocked his head to one side, his lips pulled into a frown.

  Opal’s gaze lost focus as he watched the video. Garrison sighed with relief and slid off Opal’s back.

  “There’s nothing wrong with having a tree as a friend,” said the man in the video as he added detail to the outline of a tree that was thicker and greener than what grew on most of the Koensuu peninsula.

  Garrison touched his cheek and winced, then took the rifle from King and stood outside Medvedev’s kicking range.

  “An explanation is in order,” Masha said, her voice hard and dark. “Your toy was about to murder a prisoner!”

  “I wanna get you to be creative on canvas,” the painter in the video said. “Just take your time with nothing in mind. Just have good feelings and be happy…in love with life…”

  “We had to condition Opal to fight your bodyguard,” Hoffman said. “Doughboys won’t normally harm humans, but he’s stuck in an aggression loop—because Medvedev keeps provoking him. It takes a few missions to straighten out the calming protocol the engineers put in to break the loop,” Hoffman said. “The video triggers his underlying conditioning. He’s made to kill enemies and break shit, and your legionnaire is an enemy.”

  “That’s what you tried to do,” King said to Medvedev. “You wanted Opal to snap your neck.”

  “You can’t ask questions of the dead,” Medvedev said.

  “And the dead can’t fight for the Lady,” Masha said, rolling her eyes and giving her bodyguard a dirty look.