How hot was it?
Hopper pulled back his gloves to check his watch, tapping the display and feeling a layer of sweat squeeze out from beneath the device.
118 degrees. Using the Republic standard. Not a dry heat. And it would only grow hotter as the afternoon wore on.
Shaking his head, Hopper checked the water level of his hydration pack since he was already looking at his watch, swiping over to take the reading. He was good on water, behind on drinking. In danger of allowing himself to get dehydrated. He pulled the tube from his shoulder and drank in sips of warm water, the pack’s chilling features unable to hold up against the combination of his body heat and the constant barrage of the Kublar sun.
No sooner had he finished than the scouts he’d sent out came running back, bursting through the mirages as if emerging from the other side of a hedgerow. Hopper could tell something bad was going down, could see it from the way they were running.
Running like that. In this heat. Something was up.
Hopper pinged the men on the comm. “What’s the sitrep?”
“Lots of koobs,” panted one of the mercs. “Armed.”
That was going to require more information.
“Did they engage?” Hopper hadn’t heard any shots fired.
“Looked like they had intent.”
The other merc chimed in, his breath coming in near gasps. Probably more temperature than the sprint itself. “I saw some of ’em raise weapons.”
Hopper activated the all-comm for his unit. “Inbound force headed our way. Supposed to be friendly, but be ready.”
The men quickly moved into battle positions, manning their light repeating blasters and finding suitable cover should any shooting start.
Standing in the middle of the street, Hopper looked around for his assistant team leader. He found himself wishing Team Nilo would assign rank, just because it came more naturally to mimic what all these mercs had grown accustomed to while serving. It would be so much easier to shout “Sergeant!” and have the right man at his side. As a former Marine captain, that was his natural instinct. But that wasn’t how things worked, and Hopper knew that some of the men on his team had been officers in the Army but were now just “team members” not afforded the title of Team Leader (TL) or Assistant Team Leader (ATL).
So maybe that was it or maybe it was something else. Either way, he needed his ATL immediately.
“Where’s Van Dop?” he shouted, knowing the man should be somewhere nearby.
“Van Dop!” one of the mercs echoed.
Then another shouted the ATL’s first name down the line. “Paul!”
Hopper pointed to the man shouting for his ATL by name. “Go find him.”
Van Dop was a good man. Hopper didn’t for a moment think he was sleeping, loafing, or otherwise skipping out on his responsibilities. Wherever he was and whatever he was doing, it was probably important. But Hopper needed him here now and didn’t have time to ping him on comm. He needed to get in contact with Team Nilo. Now.
A mass of koobs emerged from the obscuration of the mirage, triggering a series of shouts from the Team Nilo mercs to keep their heads in the game.
He keyed in his comm for Elektra. “Be advised, scouts have eyes on a large contingent of Kublaren forces southward on 3rd. These appear to be the same ones we armed this a.m. How copy?”
“Copy,” Elektra replied. “We still don’t have eyes on your position, but intel has further retaliation against the zhee holed up in the ZQ as a probable scenario.”
“Roger that. Let them through or…?”
Hopper let the question hang. He didn’t have the manpower to defeat a force this large. Though he was confident he could hold them back until they decided to take alternate routes to their destination if that’s what it came to. Or until reinforcements from Team Nilo arrived should a full-scale confrontation be in the cards.
“No, don’t let them go through,” advised Elektra. “We need this temporary lull in fighting so we can consolidate and prepare for the next phase. Talk to them. Get them to hold off if you can.”
“Talk to them,” Hopper said, his voice making it clear that he was no diplomat and this wasn’t exactly in his wheelhouse. But… he’d managed earlier all right. Maybe the local koobs would be willing to listen a second time.
“They’re our allies,” Elektra said, though she didn’t sound convinced to Hopper’s ear. “Tell them the assault on the zhee should wait until Mr. Nilo can provide more resources—more weapons—to better ensure for success.”
“Copy that. Hopper out.”
He was about to turn around and call for Van Dop again when he heard the man running in his direction. The ATL was buttoning up his BDU trousers and fastening his belt.
“Not a minute of privacy in this unit,” Van Dop grumbled. Then he stopped short at the sight of the Kublaren element marching down the street. They filled the lane and crowded the sidewalk, looking more like an unruly mob than a tactical column of warriors.
But the koobs maintained fire discipline. They were notorious for firing their weapons into the air at random, just to add the noise and clamor of their movements. That they were refraining seemed like a good sign to Hopper.
“I gotta go pow-wow with these guys again,” Hopper told Van Dop. “Big Nee says they’re here for a little more payback on the donks. Our orders are to convince them to wait until we give the word.”
“What if they tell you space off?”
“Well, Nilo doesn’t want them getting past us and into the ZQ. But we don’t have orders to engage. If they refuse, we’ll call it in and see what Command wants. But we need to be ready to defend our position and block their access. I want you on that while I go chat.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah. Keep things friendly. No flexing. They’re our allies now.”
“Riiight.” Van Dop turned and then stopped to pat Hopper on the shoulder. “Be careful, man.”
Hopper gave a nod, then walked up the street toward the advancing Kublaren force. He could see the experimental weapons system that Black Leaf had manufactured. And though word was that everyone in a combat role on Team Nilo would be equipped with one before long, it never sat well with him that they’d handed them over to the koobs the way they did. But maybe that was what it took to get the Pashta’k tribe to turn its collective back on the local government. Until today, the zhee hadn’t caused them the trouble they’d caused in terrorizing the inland koobs. And it was Nilo who provided the means of putting a stop to the trouble in the Soob when the local government seemed unable or unwilling to curb the frothing zhee riots.
Ahead, the throng of Pashta’k koobs halted. Hopper searched out its ranks, looking for the old Kublaren he’d communicated with when his convoy first rolled into the AO. The one who’d put tracer rounds into the zhee corpses.
If that koob was there, he was somewhere in the back. Not traveling at the front of the force. All of these guys looked decidedly younger and stronger. Koob warriors. The type Hopper and the other teams had been fighting inland in the campaign to consolidate allies for this final push.
These koobs weren’t the ones they’d delivered from the zhee. Those hadn’t been warriors. Or if they had, it was a long time ago. Now those weapons, a hybridized version of slug throwers and blasters, were in the hands of what had to be Pashta’ki fighters.
Hopper held up a hand to indicate he had something to say. He smiled, trusting the koobs to understand the expression to be one of goodwill.
He saw the flash of a rifle from somewhere behind the front line of Kublarens. But he didn’t hear the crack. His hand went up to his neck where it felt like he’d been stabbed. A spray of blood flew before his eyes and Hopper dropped onto the scorching surface of 3rd Street.
43
“Medic!”
Van Dop’s mind was racing as he watche
d his Team Leader take a shot to the neck and drop into the street. His brain was trying to prioritize things. Figure out exactly what happened beyond the obvious—that Hopper had been shot—and also seize the initiative away from the Kublarens.
The members of his team, all combat veterans with experience forged across the galaxy, didn’t hesitate to make that happen. There were no orders to engage the koobs. They didn’t need one.
Blaster fire streaked at the oncoming Kublarens and extinguished itself in the throng of armed warriors, who dropped one by one in the target-rich environment. Slowed by this, the throng still pressed forward. And though those in the vanguard dropped, it seemed there was always a Kublaren able to fill in the ranks. Muzzle flashes winked from between lines, with those in the back firing without aim through gaps that emerged between the heads and shoulders in front of them.
Van Dop saw at least one koob drop from an errant shot in the back of the head. And then the team medic raced past him, rushing to reach Hopper where he lay writhing on the ground, bloody hands clasped around his neck.
The medic slid to his knees, moving hands to his carry bag when a koob round smacked into his helmet, knocking it off and causing the medic to tumble over sideways.
“Sket!” Van Dop shouted. He realized that Hopper, who was still struggling out there as the koobs advanced, wasn’t going to get himself to safety. Realized his men were doing what they needed to be doing. A bullet skipped along the paved road at Van Dop’s feet, not touching the ATL as he stood there. He needed to move. Either find cover or go up and see about getting Hopper back into the lines. He was the only one who could do it.
“Sket,” Van Dop said again with the quiet realization that he was about to run toward the advancing hostiles. There were a lot of Pashta’k koobs.
Van Dop started to run for the wounded team leader.
Blaster bolts sizzled over his head. Bullets snapped. The report of those new rifles that were now being used against him barked, their noise seeming to drown out nearly everything else.
It seemed so inevitable that Van Dop would be hit that he expected it. Each step feeling as though something was going to slam into him and drop him, just like it had the medic. He tensed his muscles even as he ran, as if the incoming fire would somehow not be able to tear inside of him if only he cramped and tightened himself.
The expected hit didn’t come, and Van Dop found himself at Hopper’s side. The team leader was pale, his blouse drenched with blood at the neck and shoulder. Hopper was still holding his neck, still seemed strong. But his face was ashen and his eyes, which stared fixedly upward, seemed distant.
Van Dop grabbed Hopper by his harness. “Hopper. Stay with me. Gonna get you out of here.”
Bullets sang their disruptive song overhead. Blaster fire sizzled. There were indeed many koobs, but they were firing wildly from the hip as they moved. That was how they fought the zhee. Just closed in until they couldn’t miss. Their weapons likely weren’t even zeroed.
So hurry up and get out of here, Van Dop told himself.
He stole a glance at the medic, just to confirm what he already knew. The man was dead. A hole in his head so large that it had to have come from a rifle that, in hindsight, should not have been given to the locals.
Van Dop stood, again feeling the expectation of getting hit. And then he ran, pulling Hopper whose feet kicked and writhed like some kind of ancient sled dog mushing through snow. The main thing Van Dop didn’t want to do was lose his grip on the harness. He didn’t want to have to stop and go back, because he was sure that doing so would necessitate the end of his luck.
The bullets and blaster bolts weren’t hitting him. Someone up there, Oba—whoever—was letting him return to the lines.
But only if he didn’t do something to mess it up. Van Dop knew the way these things worked. It’s a thin line between a once-in-a-lifetime moment and a moment that ends your life. He’d seen it countless times before on diverse worlds. Through battles that he fought in. That he remembered. The number of which he could count, but had stopped a long time ago. Because keeping track of the number of times he’d escaped death… that felt like taunting death.
Death never likes being mocked.
A wet gurgle came from Hopper.
Van Dop was passing Team Nilo mercs now. Felt that more blaster fire was zipping past him in the opposite direction than chasing him now. He looked down. Hopper’s eyes flitted over to him. That seemed good. The recognition.
A merc—former Legion, Van Dop thought—ran up and grabbed the other side of Hopper’s harness and pulled. They moved to the rear. Van Dop had a mind to get Hopper to one of the sleds from the convoy because it could move if it needed to. That was his rationale for passing the museum’s front doors where mercs used the sandstone walls enclosing the steps for cover. Inside the museum any wounded should be safe, but if these koobs were to take the museum—if that was what they were after—it would mean they’d take Hopper and any other casualties with it. If casualties were on a sled… at least there’d be a chance they could speed out alive and get medical attention.
“Last sled in column is our CCP!” Van Dop yelled, looking to the merc who helped carry the load.
He nodded as a bullet snapped over both their heads, causing each man to duck his head reflexively.
The wall on the museum’s steps exploded as one of the rounds fired from the new rifles punched right through the sandstone, sending chunks of masonry into the body armor and faces of the mercs who had been using it for cover. One of the operators yelled in pain, clutching his eyes, blood seeping between the fingers of his gloves as his buddy called for a medic.
Ahead, a wounded merc was being pulled across the street by two buddies. The roof’s defenders and the fixed repeating blasters on the sleds were blazing, but they were facing some serious numbers. Classic Kublaren battle strategy. Overwhelm and rout. The koobs would gladly take two black eyes for a shot at giving you one.
“Sket,” gasped Van Dop. The battle was still fresh, but it seemed like there was already a lull developing in his team’s concentration of fire. Men were getting hit and their buddies were helping them, taking their own rifles out of the fight.
That wouldn’t carry.
“Keep firing!” Van Dop screamed to each merc he passed by. Orders he hadn’t thought would be necessary to seasoned combat veterans. Professional soldiers still. But here he was, giving those same orders. Like he was presiding over a bunch of boots fresh from basic training, seeing combat for the first time.
“We’re gonna need help,” grunted the merc assisting with Hopper. He looked down at the wounded team leader and added, “Stay with us, Hop.”
Van Dop had been thinking the same thing, and for whatever reason, his mind had prioritized getting Hopper to the CCP before calling in to speak with Command. As it turned out, his outgoing comm relay wouldn’t be answered until they’d traveled the remaining meters to reach the rearmost sled they’d retained.
“Go for Command,” came a female voice… Elektra, if Van Dop’s memory served him true.
“This is Paul Van Dop, Assistant Team Leader, Strikeforce Ark. We are taking heavy fire from an armed element of Kublaren hostiles. Requesting immediate fire support.”
There was a long pause. “Negative, Van Dop. We are seeing complications throughout the city. Hold position.”
Someone fired a rocket propelled grenade at one of the sleds but missed wide, the projectile detonating down the street into the stone façade of an eight-story building. Checking the advancing force, which was now bleeding into alleys in an attempt to take some cover even as it pushed up the road, Van Dop spotted humans wearing Republic Army uniforms. This wasn’t just some misunderstanding—the koobs wanting to get through Nilo’s mercs to reach the ZQ. This was a double cross.
Pashta’k had flipped. Or maybe they were never truly allies to begin with. K
oob politics were… tricky.
“Command,” Van Dop tried again, “Pashta’k warriors are advancing with Republic Army regulars and wielding the weapons we gave them against us. We are going to be overrun unless we receive immediate support.”
There was another pause before Elektra came back, her tone without emotion. “Hold position.”
That was going to be easier said than done. And while Van Dop had received orders like this from appointed officers in a former life, he’d come to hope he wouldn’t be getting the same from Team Nilo who, by his accounts, had a lot figured out. Which meant this might be a case where the new boss was pretty much the same as the old boss, or it might be that the museum—for whatever reason—was a high value target. Still, there were lives at stake and Van Dop wanted to be sure the precariousness of their defense was clearly understood.
“The hostiles are advancing unhindered. We will do what we can, but—”
Van Dop’s voice was cut off by a new voice over the comm. Mr. Surber.
“You will stay put and defend that objective. That is an absolute fact, Mr. Van Dop. That museum must be held at all costs. All costs. Now, there is a support team moving to your location from inland. They’ll be the first ones able to reach you and they will bail you out. You just need to hold on until they arrive.”
Van Dop let out a sigh. This was what he’d signed up for. And he knew what waited for him if he ever was put back out in the cold—if he were ever terminated from Team Nilo. That was a fate worse than death. And Surber knew it. Made it clear that he knew exactly which ghosts still haunted Van Dop’s past.
If that were true of the other men, time would tell. For now, it was his job to get them to put up as stiff a resistance as possible.
And hope not to die trying.
44
Carter
Inland Kublar
You know what I miss? Close air support.
Not that we got much of it in the Legion during the bulk of my time there. Point naval officers and point leejes were always too worried about the fallout of an orbital bombardment or a tri-bomber delivering a bot-guided bomb. Even the more precise air support like buzz ships rarely got the okay.
Galaxy's Edge: Takeover: Season Two: Book One Page 31