by Richard Fox
“Wolves?” Garrison asked, shaking his head. “Aliens and traitors aren’t enough. Now we have to get eaten?”
“Maybe we’re not to their taste and they’ll only kill us,” Medvedev said.
“Not. Helpful.”
Hoffman pulled King aside. “I’m clear on what’s working against us—depleted team strength, injuries, hostile environment, and responsibility for two high-value prisoners. Give me good news.”
“We’re not going to run out of ammunition. Well, not if things go well,” King said.
“Plenty of ammo. Good.” Hoffman watched Garrison and tried to estimate the extent of the breacher’s injury.
“Nutrient paste. Water. The issue is power packs. We need to move under minimal power. I recommend restricting battery usage to basic warmth and sensors,” King said.
“Standard survival stuff.”
“We have no contact with satellites,” King continued. “Not sure where we are, but close to the navy base.”
Hoffman’s gaze flickered involuntarily toward the Mule crash where Sakkatos and his copilot were entombed. “We need to blow the ship. Make it look like a total loss. No survivors.”
“We can do that. Are you sure you want to use the denethrite? We’re not exactly a walking armory. Garrison won’t be happy to waste his precious stockpile.”
“He likes blowing things up. That’s why he’s the breacher,” Hoffman said.
“With a broken arm.”
“He says it isn’t that bad,” Hoffman said. “His armor’s designed to keep him going.”
King wiped frost from his visor. “We’ll see.”
“I don’t like all the missile fire from orbit. This is looking like a full-scale assault on the planet.”
Explosions lit up the underside of distant clouds as the snowfall relented.
“We’re OK. I think the base is in worse shape than we are.”
Opal trotted over to Hoffman and handed the lieutenant a gauss rifle with a banged-up stock.
Another series of orbital bombardment strikes thundered with increasing fury. Hoffman looked down the long valley that led to Pohja Base as explosions marched across the distant landscape. Hoffman zoomed in with the rifle’s optics and saw buildings on fire and crumbling. Fighters streamed across the sky, trailing fire and exploding in the air. Gauss cannon emplacements fell silent. Larger, direct bombardment explosions bloomed silently among the defenders. Mushroom clouds reached silently upward.
“Nukes?” Hoffman asked, not wanting to hear the answer.
“No.” King scanned the devastation through his binoculars, adjusted the filter, then studied the gray mushroom clouds again. “Not nukes. High explosives with what I think were thermobaric warheads. No radiation fallout.”
“We’re not going to Pohja, are we?” Garrison asked.
“Mountain range runs southwest toward a river that leads back to the Koensuu City,” King said.
Hoffman checked his own HUD map and listened to a wing of crescent fighters cutting across the sky. “Time to go. Garrison, blow up the Mule. King, hide our tracks. We’ll move on foot until we locate a better option. Opal, bring the prisoners and follow me. I’m sending our first way point on team comms.”
Garrison slung his rifle over his back and unpacked his demolition kit. He used two hands, but Hoffman could tell he was favoring his right. His left remained tight to his body, locked in place by his armor and used only to hold the detonation cord. He spooled it out with his right hand, working fast and efficiently.
“That one knows what he is doing,” Medvedev said. “I’ve worked with legionnaires like him.”
Hoffman didn’t wait for Garrison to finish. He took Opal and the prisoners along an animal trail and stopped near the stream bed he had designated as their first rally point. An explosion thundered from the crash site.
King and Garrison rushed down the trail.
“We’re moving out on foot to Koen City,” Hoffman said to the prisoners as he checked the restraints around Medvedev’s wrists. “You cooperate, you’ll be taken care of.”
“Give me a weapon.” The bodyguard motioned to the pistol strapped to Hoffman’s chest. “I’m no good to Masha with my hands tied.”
“Yeah, listen to him,” Masha said.
“No,” Hoffman said firmly. “You two keep up. Try and run off and you’ll die tired.” He tapped the back of his hand against his pistol.
“The Kesaht fighter patrols are heading away from us on the other side of the valley,” King said. “We should step off now.”
“Maybe they aren’t even looking for us,” Hoffman said. “First thing to go right today. Let’s move out. King, take point.”
“That’s my job,” Garrison said.
“You’re injured. Let’s move.”
Chapter 4
Duke ignored Booker’s third offer of pain medicine and grit his teeth as he stared at the door to the critical care room. Duke wore a hospital gown over his bare upper body. His pseudo-muscle layer was unzipped and the upper half dangled from his waist. His upper body armor and sniper rifle lay on a chair while the medic worked on his face.
Max is solid, Duke thought. Good guy. Memories of team get-togethers with Max’s family kept fighting to get to the fore of his mind. He didn’t envy Hoffman’s duty to inform Max’s wife of the injury…or what might happen next if things took a turn for the worse.
“If you can’t relax, I’m going to have security hold you down and give you pain meds. Do you really want me to stitch up your face with that expression on it?” Booker asked. “Make it stay like that forever?”
Duke exhaled and tension drained out of him. “I’m worried about him.”
“He’s a Strike Marine,” Booker said. “We don’t take in the week. Plus, he’s in with the trauma surgeons right now. The local docs were more than competent when I turned him over. All the worry you can give won’t help him right now.”
“How is he, really?”
Booker covered his final stitch in antibacterial ointment and waited for it to dry into a second skin. She looked him in the eye when she answered. “He’s in real bad shape, but stable. Needs blood transfusions. A good percentage of his upper intestines need to get reknit. Liver took more damage than you’ve done to yours with years of cheap booze. He’s got enough painkillers and antibiotics in his system to keep him out of sepsis or feeling like he’s anywhere but a warm, fuzzy cloud. Other than that, he’s down for the count for the next few days.”
“That’s a shame. He’s always been one of the better comms operators.”
“Make sure you tell him that. He respects the hell out of you, can’t imagine why. We’ll peek in on him soon as he’s out of surgery and the drugs wear off,” Booker said.
“I’ll make a note.”
Duke tensed as air-raid sirens spun up in the courtyard of the hospital. He hated the sound. He was somehow able to sense—maybe feel—them before they reached audible levels, and once they were at full volume, they tortured everyone within a kilometer.
“All personnel, report to battle stations. Noncombat personnel, report to your assigned work areas. All supervisors are to complete a headcount within fifteen minutes and log it,” a voice said over the public-address system. “Civilians are to shelter in place. Repeat, civilians are to shelter in place unless they have been designated critical augmentation staff. This is not a drill. This is not a drill.”
Duke looked at Bunker. “That’s a citywide alert. What the hell?”
Booker, eyes wide, nodded and hurried to check on Max through a window to the surgery ward. Duke pulled off the hospital smock, zipped up his pseudo-muscle layer, and reattached his armor plates in less time then it took most men to button a shirt. He hefted his bundled sniper rifle onto his back.
Booker hesitated in the doorway. “Where are you going? I’m not done with you.”
Duke pointed upward. “I’ll be on the roof.”
“You can’t just…wait for me.”
“Move your ass.” He was still pulling on one sleeve of his pseudo-muscle layer as he ran the stairs, a complicated and graceless procedure while holding a heavy gauss carbine in one hand and his sniper kit over one shoulder.
Kesaht crescent fighters blasted over the city. A second wave came in slower, strafing the city seemingly at random, while only a few antiaircraft guns returned fire. Duke could see Planetary Defense Forces soldiers running to air defense batteries on roofs of surrounding buildings. He glanced at the doorway to the roof. “Get up here, Booker. It’s game time.”
He dropped his pack and unfolded it. In seconds, he had his kit set up—a shooting mat with magazine patches sewn into it between sections of burlap camouflage strips. From a prone position, he could hit targets out to two kilometers, even in a rush like this. Unfortunately, his target selection presented unusual problems.
He took a knee and swept the sky with his sniper scope. The rifle was heavy in this position, but precision fire was still possible.
Booker burst through the doorway, dragging her own kit and rifle.
“Set up and start spotting targets,” Duke said.
“How about I shoot my own targets?” she asked, grunting the words between clenched teeth as she rapidly deployed her gear and hefted her weapon. Then she hesitated.
“As soon as you earn an actual sniper rifle,” Duke said.
Crescent fighters fought in three levels: void space, high altitude, and right above the rooftops. Enemy ships not engaged in the battle for void and air superiority now moved slowly or even hovered over targets in Koensuu City. The city defenses spooled up too slowly and the Kesaht pilots took full advantage of the surprise attack.
“You’ll take your own shots with the rifle you have. First, we need to be a team. And when it’s time for you to drop some targets…”
“I know, I know! Breath control! Relax! Don’t I look relaxed?” she asked.
PDF point defenses engaged several fighters that almost immediately broke off their attack. Others swept around the defenses and blasted critical targets with their ship guns. Duke swore as one of the point defense batteries disintegrated under a hail of kinetic rounds.
“OK, I’m set,” Booker said. “We have clearance to fire?”
“I didn’t ask permission.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” she said. “If we do this, we make the hospital a target.”
“Everything in the city is a target. They just haven’t gotten to this one yet.” Duke tracked a fighter begging to be shot.
“Max’s in this hospital. There are civilians here. Children.”
“Now you’ve gone and made it ugly,” Duke said and then squeezed off a round, punching a hole through the canopy of the crescent fighter. It flopped over and crashed into the river meandering through the city.
“Duke! We have to move to another building before we start a shitstorm!”
“What makes you think the Kesaht care if there’s wounded in here?” He swept his rifle ten degrees to his left and shot another slow-moving crescent fighter as it dumped rounds into one of the walking parks that wove through the city.
“If they notice you, they will care about blowing up this building!”
Duke hesitated, drawing back from his rifle for a second and lowering the barrel a fraction of an inch. “Fine.”
Duke was on his feet with his kit rolled up and his rifle slung across his back before Booker realized she had won the argument. He considered yelling at her to move, move, move but took the time to pack a dip of tobacco into his lip instead. The slight stimulant buzz of nicotine calmed him. Always had.
He held the can out to her.
She rolled her eyes, hefting her gear in a surprisingly neat bundle.
He shrugged once, then hustled toward the roof access door. A lot of banging downward and handrail grabbing later, he emerged onto the street level and followed the wall to the shadows of an alley. He dropped his hastily repacked sniper kit and shrugged farther into his pseudo-muscle layer. His lightweight sniper armor was already attached to it but not strapped down properly. He was about as un-squared away as he had been in years.
Booker moved past him and took up a position on the corner of a building. Civilians ran from structure to structure. A ground car sped up the street at unsafe speeds. Somewhere in one of the buildings, a baby cried as the mother screamed for someone to hurry up. Air-raid sirens groaned in the background, contributing to the low-level headache that was the foundation of Duke’s awareness.
Fires spread through the city. Emergency-response crews drove past a burning building on the way to another, more serious explosion.
A truck full of PDF soldiers came around the corner and slowed to make the turn. Duke ran forward, jumping onto the side rail. “Where you going?”
“Got reports of landings outside the city. We’ve been ordered to the outer defensive lines,” the soldier said.
Duke glanced at Booker, who shook her head in the negative. He thumped his hand on the side of the truck. “Sounds good to us.”
“I need to stay at the hospital. They already have wounded streaming in, civilian and military casualties,” Booker said, hefting her sniper kit higher onto her shoulder.
“Is she a medic or a sniper?” asked the driver of the truck, eyeing her from head to toe and taking his time about it.
“In the Strike Marines, we do it all,” Duke said. He leaned closer to Booker. “You’re a field medic. We’re going to need you at the front.”
She looked at the hospital, then climbed in with the other soldiers. Every one of them stared at her, almost completely ignoring Duke. “I’m worried about Max. But you’re right.”
“So what’s new?”
Chapter 5
King set an aggressive pace, moving under the cover of tree branches and intermittent snow. Hoffman kept the prisoners between himself and Opal while Garrison brought up the rear.
“Maintain visual contact,” Hoffman said over the IR comms, shivering from one of the random stabs of cold air penetrating his suit. The armor could button up for void and high pressure environments, but adjusting his armor to be warm and toasty would drain his batteries, and he had to err on the judgment that no resupply was coming. Moving would keep his Strike Marine armor warm and conserve battery power as the armor recaptured some of the kinetic energy of locomotion. Each time they stopped, the battery would drain faster. He needed to keep his team moving.
King paused, looked back, and acknowledged with a hand signal.
“Lieutenant Hoffman, I’m freezing,” Masha said. “No amount of exertion will warm me up. Not on this planet.”
“These enviro suits are just as warm as their Strike Marine armor in low-power mode,” Medvedev said. “Do not show them your weakness.”
Masha muttered something in Basque.
“I’m your bodyguard, not your mother,” Medvedev said.
Hoffman took Masha by one arm to keep her moving. “The Kesaht will kill all of us if they catch us.”
“Of course,” she said. “But I am cold.”
“We’re all cold. It could be worse,” Hoffman said.
“LT, you know Fate can hear you,” Garrison squealed. “Don’t tempt her.”
Near the top of a trail, King held up one fist.
“Freeze. Don’t move,” Hoffman relayed to the team. “King, report.”
“Might be the remains of a moose or whatever passes for a large forest-dwelling herbivore on Koen. Looks like moose. More fur. And it was spotted gray and white, I think,” King said.
“You think?” Hoffman asked.
“Something ate most of it.”
“We’re coming up the trail,” Hoffman said. Watching the prisoners and the terrain, he calculated they were moving too slowly to clear the area before Kesaht crescent fighters completed their grid search. He’d already been granted one stroke of luck when the enemy was drawn away by fighting elsewhere. “Garrison, tighten up our line. We need to move faster and fin
d shelter.”
“Acknowledged,” Garrison said. He puffed up the trail and joined Hoffman and the others at a scene of primal carnage. “Wow, what’d you do, Opie?”
Opal gave him a blank look.
“Why can’t I get a rise out of you, big guy?”
Hoffman recorded a short video entry for his log, then answered his broken-armed breacher. “He knows he didn’t kill this moose-thing. Probably thinks your question is stupid. How’s your arm?”
Garrison lifted his right arm and flexed the pseudo muscle under the composite armor plate. “Nothing but a gun show.”
“Your other arm.”
“Kind of aches.”
“Aches?” Hoffman stepped closer and engaged him on a private IR link.
Garrison swallowed hard and held Hoffman’s stare for the first time in hours. He looked worried, almost guilty. “I’ve done all I can without Doc Booker. The armor’s like an exoskeleton, good at supporting my actual skeleton. The compression protocols are cycling—and hurt like hell half the time. I’ve taken the maximum dose of anti-inflammatory pain meds. Sorry, LT.”
“Not your fault. We’ll get you to sick call and fix you up soon as we can.”
“The base doctor will probably want to give me a couple extra weeks leave. On Hawaii or something. Just guessing. Someplace warm.”
Hoffman shook his head and went to check on his prisoners. A moment later, he heard King yelling at Garrison.
“Watch where you step! There’s blood all over this scene.”
“Understood. Wouldn’t want to make a mess.”
“Just…” King sighed. “Garrison, you meathead. Just get your act together. I can’t do everything.”
Hoffman squatted next to Masha and her bodyguard, grateful they couldn’t hear the IR net. “How are the environment suits holding up?”
Masha hugged herself as she had been for the last kilometer. “Good enough.”
“You’re trembling.”
“I told you I was cold,” she said. “We should get moving. You promised me the exercise will warm me. And I don’t like the look of that dead animal. Did you measure the size of the bite marks?”