by Richard Fox
****
Hoffman sheltered his team in a cave barely deep enough to hold them. Huddled together, they were marginally warmer than walking into the endless gale. The darkness of night transformed into a murky tempest.
“Check your gear. Check your partner. We’re moving,” Hoffman said.
“Sir, can I say this has been my least favorite mission since the Kid’ran’s Gift?” Garrison said.
“Every mission is your least favorite mission,” Hoffman said. “Let’s move.”
“It’s not just the weather. I haven’t blown anything up on this planet. How will I show my face at the EOD school at Twentynine Palms?”
“I’m sure we’ll find something needing explosive deconstruction. Team, move out,” Hoffman said.
The complexity of the maze intensified when they reached the bottom. Instead of navigating dangerous heights, they marched between towers of stone. “I think all the storms on the planet must come through this canyon,” Hoffman said.
Masha didn’t react to his shouted words. Snow caked on the front of his under-armor. He looked back at his team and saw them shambling forward. Heads down, bodies leaning into the wind; none of them looked ready to fight.
He couldn’t feel his fingers or his toes. He fantasized about standing in front of a campfire, the snow popping and hissing as it melted. Instead of warmth, he found a patch of ice. One foot shot forward and sideways. Masha grabbed him as he fell.
“We’ve got to get out of the wind,” he said from one knee. “It blasts into this canyon like a weapon.”
“We continue,” she said. “The end of the maze will be abrupt.”
“If you get us through this, I’ll make it up to you,” he said, not sure exactly what he meant. “Forget I said that. Not thinking clearly.”
“Never admit weakness to an Ibarran, Thomas Hoffman,” she said, then turned in to the wind. Walls of rock stood to her right and left as she advanced with her head down and arms hugging her body. “You may need to push me. I’m too small to make much headway in the wind.”
He pushed her through a narrow passage that didn’t seem to end. “Count off from King.”
“King, moving in rearguard.”
“Garrison with Opal and the second prisoner.” Static scrambled the IR link. “Also freezing to actual death.”
“Opal hungry.”
“Hey, Gunney? Why is Opal looking at me like that? He promised not to eat me.”
“Can it,” King said.
“Medvedev, sound off.”
Neither of the Ibarrans responded.
“Medvedev, I need to know if your communication hardware is working,” Hoffman said.
“I am here. Without a weapon or proper equipment for this death march.”
“No radio check for me, Lieutenant?” Masha said without looking back.
“I know your helmet is working, and I can see you most of the time.”
King cursed. “Comms won’t last forever on residual power. We’ll be using hand signals soon, which means Garrison will be useless.”
“I know my hand signals, Gunney. The ox, though…and I don’t mean Opal.”
Medvedev held up his middle digit.
Hoffman beat snow from his under-armor. “No more unnecessary chatter. Keep moving. Tighten up the formation and try to maintain visual contact down the line.”
“We are near the end of the maze. Beyond this point, there will be no cover or concealment for miles—only rocky foothills crisscrossed by the erosion of landslides and nearly forgotten glaciers. There are thousands of lakes and frozen marshlands humans have yet to explore.”
Hoffman chopped his hand forward twice. “Let’s move. Clock’s ticking.”
She led the way, picking up the pace to a fast walk in places. The wind died almost immediately. Foothills spread toward the horizon. Creek beds and sinkholes scarred the landscape.
Comms chatter stopped, but he sensed something was wrong. “Hoffman for King, radio check.”
No answer.
He held up one fist to freeze his team in place and the Strike Marines covered their fire zones and waited for orders. Hoffman suspected they were trying their IR comms.
Facing Masha, he tapped his ear, made eye contact with her through their visors, and all but shouted, “I’m going back to talk to my NCO. Don’t go anywhere.”
“And miss this delightful chance to escape?”
Dense mist lowered from the darkening sky. His Strike Marine boots gripped the treacherous rock trail better than tactical footwear of old, but it was nothing like the mag-plate enhanced functionality they could expect during shipboard fighting.
“Garrison, how are your comms?” he said as he touched the Strike Marine’s shoulder.
Garrison’s helmet muted his voice and was starting to fog up without trace power to work the air filters. “No comms. I think I’m getting even colder, if that’s possible. Now we have freezing mist.”
“Keep an eye on Masha.” Hoffman checked on Opal and Medvedev, meeting King halfway.
“We need to tighten up our column,” King said. “Not ideal in this terrain, but it is what it is.”
“Back to basic infantry tactics. Roll back war-fighting tactics hundreds of years.”
“Oorah,” King said dryly.
Hoffman warmed up his command voice as he moved forward. “Garrison, take point.”
“Moving to point, sending back the prisoner,” Garrison shouted.
“Look sharp. Use hand signals. We’re going to march to Koensuu City and link up with the rest of our team,” Hoffman said.
“I can’t wait to see Booker so she can fix me right,” said Garrison.
“Ungrateful Terran,” Medvedev grunted. “Kakamutiko.”
“English!” Opal swiped at Medvedev’s helmet but missed when the man ducked.
Garrison pushed his left palm forward urgently. “Enemy contact.”
“Get behind me and stay down.” Hoffman stood over Masha, searching for enemies through the sights of his gauss rifle.
Flashes of booming muzzle fire snapped into existence on their left flank from slightly higher ground and the top of a gravel slope. “Contact left! Get on line! Get on line!” Hoffman shoved Masha on her stomach and lay across her as he returned fire, his lack of armor plates making him feel especially vulnerable.
The rest of his team adjusted their positions, responding to the ambush with accurate counterfire. Several ice-crusted Rakka tumbled out of their hiding places with fatal wounds to heads and upper torsos.
“Stay down,” he said, pushing Masha against the ground. He sprang to his feet and charged. “Assault through. Assault through the ambush!”
King repeated his orders as Garrison and Opal rushed at the shallow Rakka trenches the ambushers had dug just deep enough for concealment. Strike Marine boots churned up frozen gravel as they advanced, firing on the move, working as a team.
Rakka fell back to a secondary trench that was deeper than the first.
Hoffman and his team hit the ground. He looked back from the ambush trench at Masha and Medvedev. They were still taking fire but were curled up behind what cover they could find.
“I feel naked,” Garrison said.
“Opal want armor.”
“What else does Opal want?” Hoffman asked as he switched a fresh magazine into place.
“Kill enemy!”
“Then let’s get ’em,” Hoffman said, bursting from the trench and rushing the Rakka before they could solidify their position.
“Assault! Assault! Assault!” King shouted.
“Oorah!” Garrison shouted as he reached the enemy position first, engaging them with his gauss rifle at close range.
“Kill enemy!” Opal jumped into the trench, swinging his hammer into a crushing blow against a Rakka’s chest, then kicking another Rakka in the face.
King, at the end of Hoffman’s team, dropped into the trench and fired down its length, enfilading the Rakka as they scrambled to esca
pe. Hoffman did the same toward the other end of the line as Kesaht bullets snapped past his helmet, the familiar sound of gauss rifles raging all around him.
“I don’t like fighting this close without real armor!” Gunney King shouted.
Garrison reloaded, his movements honed by hours of practice. “You’re telling me! I think the lieutenant might have shot me in the ass.”
“Counter assault! Fall back,” King said, retreating from a swarm of Rakka. “This will be…a problem without our…armor.”
Hoffman’s team fell back two by two, covering each other with volumes of gauss fire. They reached the first trench—the ambush trench—and weren’t given time to establish their position. He didn’t see any Sanheel officers but the Kesaht grunts knew how to fight once it started.
“Moving!” Garrison said, falling back with Opal at his side.
“Covering and suppressing!” Hoffman and King fired into what looked like a sloppy squad of charging Rakka. Shaggy hair danced from the violence of their movements and they handled the crude firearms with aggressive confidence. More than once, he saw a Rakka drop a magazine from a weapon with no attempt to recover it. The Kesaht grunt merely slammed a new one into the receiver well and continued to spray ballistic projectiles at Hoffman’s team. More than a dozen of the brutes charged with bone-handled pole arms, wide blades reflecting explosions like mirrors.
“Set! For the record, I’m not a huge fan of the trench-warfare thing we’re doing,” Garrison said.
Hoffman and King fell back. As soon as they reached their original position, Hoffman looked for Masha and Medvedev and couldn’t find them.
“Here they come!” Garrison shouted.
Rakka swarmed down from the heights in waves. The moment felt surreal and Hoffman missed the sound of radio chatter in his ear. There was less crosstalk and fewer jokes than he was accustomed to when things got tough. Bullets snapped by him, grazing his arm and leaving a bloody wound. He dropped to the ground and moved sideways.
“You don’t have armor,” King shouted at him. “This is exactly why I hammered movement tactics into the team during training.”
Hoffman fired a controlled burst from his gauss rifle, then turned on his side to look at his team. He did a quick headcount, marked their positions in his memory, then faced the fight. Enemies piled up before him with holes punched through their inadequate armor. He wondered if they were poorly equipped or just refused to wear the gear that was issued them.
“The barbarians are at the gate now! You should give me a weapon!” Medvedev said.
Hoffman shifted to his left, popped up onto one knee to aim over a rock, and fired three more bursts. He wanted to move again, but there was no time. He fired over and over, reloading frequently.
“There are a lot of these guys,” King grunted as he fired single rounds at single targets.
Hoffman looked at Garrison and noted with approval the breacher was making his shots count as well. Opal fought as he always fought, undaunted by danger and frighteningly proficient in all things involving combat.
“Fall back, tighten it up, and watch each other’s backs,” Hoffman said.
Rakka leapt forward with melee weapons—pole arms, wicked clubs, and weapons that could be a cross between a trenching tool and an axe.
Opal hurled a rock at a Rakka and crushed its skull, then shoulder-charged forward and stopped the oncoming Rakka. The two masses ground to a halt in the middle of the trench and Opal shot his right elbow forward, the blow taking a second attacker across the bridge of his nose and knocking him off his feet. The doughboy aimed a front kick at the third enemy and sent him flying all the way back to the original trench line.
Garrison slung his rifle over his back and tightened the strap in a fluid series of movements. A moment later, he had his breaching prybar in both hands. The heavy lever wasn’t meant for fighting, but he put his hours of strength training to use, slamming the omnium-forged bar into one face after another.
King fought with a pistol in his left hand and his Ka-Bar extended from his right gauntlet. He moved with methodical proficiency, frequently glancing toward Hoffman to make sure the team commander wasn’t issuing him new orders. Somehow, he worked this into the frantic pace of battle.
Hoffman moved through the chaos, firing his pistol at close range. When enemies came too close, he kicked them or simply sidestepped their advance. He looked around for Masha and found her crouched behind a rock near her bodyguard. Medvedev had joined the fight.
The heavily muscled legionnaire lifted a Rakka into the air, holding the creature by his waist before slamming it down onto its head. The pair wrestled around on the ground until Medvedev rolled away victorious and a new attacker knee-kicked him in the face. He fell backward and the Rakka advanced.
Opal grabbed Medvedev’s attacker from behind by its long hair and yanked it off its feet. Without hesitation, Medvedev launched himself at another of the Kesaht grunts and wrestled the primitive rifle out of his hands. No sooner did he have the weapon than a cluster of the enemies tackled him to the ground and pummeled him.
“Masha! Stay close to Opal and he will protect you!”
The beautiful Ibarran spy hesitated, seemingly torn between Medvedev and Opal.
Hoffman heard hooves and turned just in time to see a Sanheel bound over a line of ice-covered rocks. It carried a short shotgun in one hand and a spear in the other. Hoffman ran to help and screamed at King, but the gunnery sergeant was too far away.
Garrison broke free from his attackers and rushed between Masha and the Sanheel, slamming his breaching tool against the Sanheel officer where the horse body and humanoid body met.
The Sanheel shouted a curse, then screamed at the Rakka to come defend him. Garrison ignored everything but swinging his breaching tool, driving the massive, eight-foot-tall creature back, blow after blow. Then, almost at random, he stepped back, drew his pistol, and emptied it into the strange enemy.
Sanheel death throes—flailing hooves and thousands of pounds of muscle—lashed the air. Garrison retreated, eyes wide.
Rakka stared at the dead officer, then fled the way they had come.
Hoffman searched for Masha and saw her crouching defensively. Medvedev staggered toward her, then stopped when he spotted a Rakka assault rifle lying at his feet. He bent down for it.
Opal lunged forward and stepped on the weapon. “No weapon.”
“Lieutenant Hoffman, he’s a better fighter than any of you!” Masha shouted.
Hoffman stared at the heavily muscled legionnaire, a man so thick through his chest and torso that he rivaled Opal. Armed, the man was a formidable enemy.
“I swear by Saint Kallen that I will do all in my power to defend you and your team so long as you keep Masha safe from these Kesaht scumbags,” Medvedev said.
King and Garrison stared at Medvedev. Hoffman moved closer. “I’m not one for religion.”
“You know enough Marines that are to know I’m true to my word,” Medvedev said.
Hoffman looked to Masha. Her expression was tired and worried. She nodded and he thought she was sincere.
“Opal, let him have the gun.” Hoffman walked forward, then leaned close to the legionnaire. “If you violate your oath, you’ll never make it to a trial. My people are going home alive and we will complete our mission.”
“By the Saint.” Medvedev crossed himself.
Hoffman turned to Masha for confirmation. “I have his oath. Don’t make him betray it and get killed.”
“What purpose would that serve? While we are talking about weapons…” She glanced at a pistol on the ground.
“Not you. Not a chance. I haven’t forgotten New Bastion,” Hoffman said.
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “You are going to hold that against me forever.”
****
Hoffman’s depleted, battered team arrived at the outskirts of Koensuu City, where smoke drifted into the air from explosions in and beyond the city. The sky was crisscrossed wi
th contrails of Terran and Kesaht fighter craft. He spotted fortified positions manned by tanks and other heavy vehicles. Mules dropped down from orbit with reinforcements and materials. If not for the imminent danger, it would have been impressive to watch.
Outside the city were Rakka—on foot, in vehicles, marching to the orders of Sanheel, milling forward in unorganized masses of brewing violence.
“I never thought I’d be so happy to see an alien city as cold as this one,” Garrison said, cleaning his weapon as he sat on a mound of rocks and stared at the enemy units between them and the city defenses. “Too bad there’s absolutely no way inside. I mean, there’s a gap in their line, but what good does it do?”
Masha rocked forward and back where she sat on another primitive rock hedge. “I can get us inside. Sneaking into places is what I do for a living.”
“Soon as we’re inside, we’ll find a nice warm cell for you,” Hoffman said.
Masha trembled from head to toe, hugging herself and stuttering as she spoke. “I’m really…tired…of being cold. Sick of winter…and sick of living outdoors.”
“She’s right,” Garrison said. “Spies know how to sneak into places. I vote aye.”
“Aye, what?” King asked.
“Aye. As in yes. As in, can we please let the Ibarran super-spook show us her secret way in?” Garrison said.
“For once, I think the meathead is right,” Masha said.
“You’re going to have to narrow that down a bit,” King said.
“Where?” Hoffman asked.
Masha moved to the edge of their small camp and pointed to a location in the distance where the Rakka had set up a small camp of hide tents. “They are parked there for a reason. We can get past their sentries, then to the wall where that tower has two flames burning on top of it instead of one, then into a passage that will take us inside the city.”
“I’ll think about it. King, let’s have a conference. Everyone else rest, recover, and get ready to run and fight,” Hoffman said.