Rage of Winter (Terran Strike Marines Book 2)

by Richard Fox

  “Remember that. I’m giving you a local anesthetic,” she said as she unzipped the pseudo-muscle layer off his broken arm, then sprayed the ugly blue flesh with an aerosol.

  Garrison looked at his bruises and turned his head away.

  “Lidocaine? Really? How about the good stuff before we get to the ouchy parts?”

  “Shhhh. Think happy thoughts. Play Opal’s tree-painter video,” Booker said.

  “I’m not a doughboy,” Garrison said, relaxing under the touch of Booker’s calloused hands and confident voice. “It probably doesn’t work on me.”

  “This isn’t so bad,” Booker said. “Easy cheesy. You have a closed-wound, linear fracture of the ulna. Non-displaced. All good things. Your armor has arrested any worsening of the problem. And now you have me to the rescue.”

  “Hey, Gunney. On second thought, can I get the happy guy? Any video but when he paints a mountain. Pretty please.”

  King pulled his Mil-II Ubi from his kit and turned it on. Opal wandered closer to watch the video.

  “Everyone should have a tree friend. Maybe more than one. See, just keeping the brush moving. No mistakes, just happy accidents…”

  “I’m going to make a small incision here and take a look with my medical field scope, then a little minor surgery to introduce stem-cell osteoblast into the wound area.”

  “Will…that hurt?” Garrison said, still watching the video.

  “About ten times as bad as what Medvedev did to you. He should have laid you supine and weighted the arm. You would’ve had instant relief.”

  “Instant?” Garrison squeaked. He cleared his throat and continued in his usual, gruff voice. “He turned my arm on purpose. That jagoff was trying to hurt me!”

  Duke came in the tent carrying ruggedized cases in either hand. A gaggle of starry-eyed junior enlisted soldiers from the PDF followed him in, all hefting cases.

  “Who wants power armor?” Duke asked as he dropped the boxes and rolled his shoulders back and forth. “It’s not Strike Marine standard, but it matches the local gear. Helps to be dressed like everyone else. Keeps the enemy from thinking you’re important and friendlies from thinking you’re a baddie just because you ain’t dressed right.”

  “Finally.” King popped open a case and removed a shoulder pauldron. “Felt like I’ve been fighting in my skivvies since three mountains ago.”

  The gunney frowned and wiped a thumb along the edge. It came back with a smudge of blood.

  “Sorry, sir,” one of the PDF said. “This is all repurposed gear. There’s a rush to get replacement parts into the fields and—”

  “I’ll try not to add to it for the next guy,” King said.

  “Opal.” Duke dragged a long case over to the doughboy. “You remember what Christmas is?”

  “Shinies?” Opal asked.

  Duke kicked the weapon case open and Opal removed a heavy gauss rifle. He hefted it against his shoulder and looked down the barrel, then brought it to a table and began to field strip it. The doughboy’s expression didn’t change as he detached the firing chamber and looked into the breach.

  “Need—” The doughboy looked at Duke and took a cleaning kit offered by the sniper.

  “That’s the happiest I’ve seen Opal since he strangled two Rakka to death at the same time,” Garrison said.

  “It’s the little things,” Booker said. “Warmth. Caffeine. Heavy caliber gauss rifles firing on full cyclic.”

  “Gear up,” Hoffman said. “War’s not going to stop just because we need a break.”

  Duke dragged an armor case over to the lieutenant and helped Hoffman into the plates.

  “What’s it like on the front lines?” Hoffman asked the sniper.

  “Situation isn’t good. No one was expecting this kind of attack. The Kesaht don’t do anything like they should. Like a normal enemy would. Mass waves attack in some sectors. Pinpoint raids behind our lines in others. Quality of their operations varies. We drop enough Sanheel and an entire attack will grind to a halt. The Sanheel stay back and concentrate on running their fight and the Rakka are more effective. The centaurs seem awful eager for glory, which is fine by me. Makes them easy targets.”

  Hoffman plugged a breastplate into the ports on his pseudoarmor and felt his suit contract and expand as it adjusted to the weight. The local gear had a forest camo pattern. He made a mental note to find a stencil and rank insignia later.

  “The city doesn’t have standardized defenses,” Duke said. “It’s improving, but it’s hard to get reinforcements to the surface with the air and space battle above it so hot and heavy. Our Eagle pilots outclass the enemy, but they’re outnumbered. More than a few Mules have gone down on various missions,” Duke said. “I’ve been able to take the initiative, knocking off commanders when I can find them, citing you as my commander and basically refusing to be shoved into the line to sit in a hide with my thumb up my fourth point of contact.”

  Hoffman looked down at his sleeve display, which felt heavy and bulky minus the armor he had left in the mountains. The powered parts of his under-armor layer functioned. He had requisitioned a battery for each member of his team so they could communicate and record reports.

  Alerts vibrated through the display. He glanced around and saw his team receiving similar messages. “All right, that’s it. We’ve got orders to collapse defenses. That means back to the city.”

  Masha slurped down her soup as she stood. Medvedev took her by the elbow and hurried her toward the front of the tent.

  “No. Wait. Stop pulling me. This is the best, hottest soup I’ve ever tasted,” she complained.

  “We must go. I think we have already stayed too long. These Terrans don’t do things as we do in the legion,” Medvedev said.

  “You heard the boss,” King said. “Let’s move it, people. Garrison, help our prisoners back into their zip ties.”

  Masha swore. Medvedev glowered at Garrison as the restraints tightened.

  Hoffman and the others packed their gear and rushed to the armored ground transports. The commander of the FOB pointed at one and told him to get in. “You might not believe it, but right now it’s better than a Mule.”

  PDF Rangers held their defensive positions around the Delta Forward Operating Base until the last moment. Through the view port, Hoffman saw them running to their own armored cars. Moments later, the column sped away from the Kesaht camps and toward a lightly defended route to the northern section of Koensuu City. Mangled buildings and cratered walking paths stretched away from his limited point of view. The armored car ignored the subtleties of the twisting lanes, cutting straight across delicate landscapes thousands of years old.

  Hoffman’s vehicle was in the middle of the line, driven by a Planetary Defense transportation specialist. He listened to the man’s radio but kept his mouth shut. The driver knew what he was doing.

  The column sped into the city, swerving down the winding streets and flashing electronic credentials ahead of them to checkpoints. Guards made them stop, but only briefly.

  Broken buildings, scorched pavement, and bloodstains demonstrated the intensity of previous battles. Hoffman barely recognized the city. Street intersections flew by as fighting intensified behind them.

  Chapter 21

  “Got a call from my boss. Have to dump you here and take a priority medical evac,” the driver said.

  “Understood.” Hoffman gave the dismount hand signal to his team. “Everyone out, including the prisoners.”

  “HQ says I can keep the prisoners and drop them off with security,” the driver said.

  “Our mission, our problem. Thanks anyway.”

  The driver tapped his earphones.

  “HQ wants all your firepower at Valkyrie Tower. The PDF are holding on by their fingernails and you Strike Marine types are supposed to be the best of the best.” He jerked a thumb at Duke. “I can handle two prisoners in restraints.”

  “These aren’t a pair of drunks that violated curfew,” Hoffman said.
“These are agents of a foreign power. Slippery ones.”

  The snap of gauss rifles echoed through the street, mingling with explosions. Hoffman looked over the side of the cargo truck, then at the two prisoners.

  “Something fishy about this,” King said over the team’s internal IR.

  “Yep. Didn’t like that at all,” Hoffman said, sweeping his rifle sights along the street. “But there are men and women dying over there. None of us became Strike Marines to shirk out when the fighting starts.”

  “You think the Ibarrans would pull something in the middle of a siege? With no way off world?” King asked.

  “You think the whole team needs to drop them off at a police station and eat donuts?”

  “Negative, sir. Give me Garrison and I’ll take the prisoners downtown. I’ll make sure they’re secured, then we’ll find our way back to you. You go shed some blood for the Corps. Just save some aliens for me,” King said.

  “That works. This city falls, it won’t much matter where the prisoners are.” Hoffman switched off the IR channel and stomped his foot twice. “Driver. Take the prisoners and two of my Marines to the police station. Rest of us will hoof it to the front.”

  “I’ll send up that you’re on the way,” the driver said.

  Hoffman leveled a finger at Masha. “See you soon.”

  “Is this cell heated?” Masha asked.

  “Fight well,” Medvedev said. “For her sake.”

  Hoffman and his team jumped off the back of the truck and Garrison waved goodbye as the truck sped away. His team was just as under strength as before. Now he’d swapped in two sniper-armed Marines for a close-in urban fight.

  “Let’s move in case there’s a traitor broadcasting our position as we stand here chitchatting.” He opened the squad link. “Team move, heading 285 degrees. Traveling security. Assume the area is hostile.”

  Rockets leapt outward from the city defenses. Hoffman quickly identified them as M-37 Gremlin barrage munitions, designed to saturate an area with shrapnel.

  “Gremlins,” Duke said, “those are last-ditch munitions. Final protective fire.”

  “Enemy’s pushing. Step it out, Marines,” Hoffman said and ran toward the sound of gunfire.

  ****

  Duke sprinted up the stairs, unrolled his kit near one of the banisters, and aimed his sniper rifle across the room and out a tall window. Booker, not looking happy, dropped beside him and aimed her sniper rifle as well.

  “What targets do you want?” Booker asked.

  “Officers.”

  “My favorite,” Booker said.

  “The windows are thirty feet tall and thirty feet away. We’re practically invisible this deep in the room.” Duke relaxed against his rifle.

  Booker imitated him.

  Opal took a defensive position on the first floor, blasting Rakka that came too close to the front of the building with his heavy gauss rifle.

  Hoffman cleared the other rooms, already missing King and Garrison each time he went around a corner. Going solo on this was as tactically wrong and bad field craft as it could get, but he didn’t want surprises.

  Something snapped through an exterior window as he crossed a hallway to reach another room. He looked down at his left arm. Blood leaked from a graze wound. The pseudo-muscle sleeve peeked open and closed when he moved.

  Once he finished his fast-and-dirty clearing mission, he dropped to the floor near Opal and removed a compression bandage from his kit. Folding it in half, he shoved it into the hole.

  Duke fired again and again.

  With wounds and the perimeter addressed, Hoffman checked Duke’s progress. For the second time, the Rakka advance had stalled. Sanheel officers rode in tight circles at the end of the street, shouting at the Rakka infantry.

  Duke fired and a Sanheel tumbled over dead, landing on a pair of Rakka.

  “Kill enemy!” Opal cut down a rush of Rakka, ending their lives fifty meters from the front door of the Koensuu City mansion.

  Rockets streamed down on the building, blowing out walls around Hoffman and Opal. Debris exploded across the ballroom, spraying Duke and Booker’s elevated position above the dance floor. The sniper and his observer ducked their heads for several seconds, then started firing—first Duke, then Booker.

  “Take your time, Booker. Make every shot count,” Duke grunted.

  “Screw you. I’m killing the hell out of these things.”

  Duke fired three times. Two Sanheel and a Rakka countersniper died.

  Hoffman moved to a different window on the main floor, ducked out, then stepped out on a ruined balcony with one foot. He retreated seconds later. “Duke! Another air strike’s inbound. One crescent fighter moving low and slow.”

  “I see the evil bastard,” Duke said.

  “Rooftops are the only way out of here,” Hoffman said. “Rakka have the building surrounded and seem to be getting paid by bullets expended,” he shouted over the roar of the incoming crescent engines.

  Duke paused, then fired three quick shots.

  “Good hits,” Booker said. “I think you brained the pilot with the last one.”

  Duke pulled back from his rifle, paused, then scrambled to his feet. “Clear out!”

  Hoffman saw what was happening at the same time. “Dive for the corners! Move!” He grabbed Opal by one arm and manhandled him forward, a tactic that worked surprisingly well, considering their size disparity. The doughboy yielded to him instinctively.

  The crescent fighter hit the windows Duke had been firing through and would have killed him if his position wasn’t on the opposite side of the room. The windows towered almost three stories high with smoke billowing outward now. Debris rained down from the ceiling, walls, and balconies. Hoffman and Opal charged through it.

  Burning jet fuel dripped from above and ran down the stairs to spread across the ballroom floor. Rakka scrambled over what had been the front wall. A banister railing slipped out of place and reached into the smoke and dust twenty feet above the floor.

  “Duke, we’re leaving!” Hoffman led Opal up the stairs, jumping the streaming fire and ducking bullets zipping in from the streets surrounding the building.

  Hoffman raced past his snipers. Duke packed up his primary rifle, slinging it across his back before switching to a smaller patrol carbine. He held the top of the stairs as Rakka splashed through the burning fuel. The first balked, but a Sanheel rode into the ballroom from hell, reared up like a warhorse, and slammed his hooves down on the reluctant assaulters.

  After that, Rakka were berserk to attack.

  Duke fired one, two, three times on as many targets.

  Hoffman stepped onto a narrow side balcony and pointed to a similar building across the alley. “That balcony is lower than this one!”

  “By five inches!” Booker shouted.

  “Let’s go, Opal.”

  “Opal help sir!” The doughboy grabbed Hoffman by his neck and his belt, swung him back once, then hurled him over the gap.

  Booker retreated, holding one hand forward and one hand on her patrol rifle. “Opal, no!”

  “Opal help Booker!” He flung the medic over to Hoffman’s new location on the neighboring balcony.

  “Opal help Duke!”

  Duke slapped his grasping hands aside. “Don’t you touch me. I know how to jump between buildings.”

  “Opal help?”

  “No.”

  Opal pouted, then looked up. “Opal jump last.”

  “Fine, you big dummy. Opal can be the last man.”

  “Last doughboy,” Opal said.

  “Whatever.” Duke leapt the gap, hit the target balcony, and rolled to one side to keep from tumbling over the sniper kit on his back.

  Opal turned to face a trio of rampaging Rakka. He kicked the first one in the pelvis, sending it flying into the others. “Opal kill enemy later.” He jumped the gap. The balcony shook when he hit without rolling, absorbing the impact by dropping into a low squat.

  “By the
Saint, you’re a big dumb bastard,” Duke said, then started picking off the Rakka firing down on them.

  ****

  Hoffman could barely speak; his throat was so dry. There was nothing he wanted more than water. No amount of adrenaline or caffeine could keep him going another step, which made him unreasonably glad to see the PDF retaking the area.

  The local militia did double takes as Duke passed them by; the long vanes of his sniper rifle made him easy to spot.

  “These boys are green but earnest,” Duke said. “They do all right with the proper leadership.”

  “I told you that was him,” one of the privates said to his buddy.

  “I knew it was. Wasn’t doubting you. I just said it was amazing we’re fighting beside him,” another private said.

  Booker rolled her eyes. “They really like Duke.”

  “Greatness is its own reward,” Duke said.

  “Such humility.” Hoffman grumbled.

  The team arrived at a frozen water fountain and a PDF lieutenant hurried over.

  “Wait here ten minutes. I’m being told they’re sending your gear. And…oh…the battalion CO has a message for Duke. He says stay frosty. Sorry, he’s a bit of a corny dude.”

  “It’s OK,” Duke said. “Not everyone can be stone-cold killers like you and your platoon.”

  The young lieutenant beamed and went back to his men.

  Chapter 22

  King stood on one side of the booking desk while Garrison held his position on the other, his gauss rifle ready. A young, clean-cut, eager-to-please Koensuu City police officer checked his Ubi data slate for orders.

  “It’s too late to cause trouble, Medvedev,” King said. “You missed your chance.”

  “Good thing you finally learned your lesson,” Garrison said.

  The legionnaire appeared bigger without Opal standing there to dwarf him. He looked more menacing despite a room full of police officers and a future surrounded by simple but uncompromising security measures.

  King pointed at Masha. “You get your own room. There won’t be any need for a bodyguard here.”