The Price of Honor (The United Federation Marine Corps' Grub Wars Book 2)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  “Cara, I’m flagging your potential position,” he passed just as a flicker of light appeared on the knoll.

  “Oh, crap!” he said, cutting Cara off as rounds started impacting around him.

  Someone else thought it would be a good position as well.

  A huge explosion erupted from Second Team’s position, and Hondo caught a glimpse of a PICS rising in the air before falling back down. Marasco’s avatar flipped to the light blue of a WIA.

  “Fall back and take cover!” Hondo shouted.

  Something hit him hard in the chest, making his PICS ring, but he was still functional.

  The slight brow in the hill didn’t provide any cover for an upright PICS, but a Marine could override a PICS’ gyros and go prone.

  It was a tricky maneuver, but Hondo had done this so often in training that he could do it in his sleep. He was on the ground, focusing on his display.

  PFC Bunyansarn, however, was either confused, or she was not as adept. Still standing to Hondo’s left, she’d just started to bend when a missile slammed into her.

  “Dead Man’s Slot,” Hondo muttered, despite not believing that garbage.

  Behind him, the lieutenant rushed forward while Cara’s second squad was firing, peppering the knoll.

  “Get down, sir!” Hondo shouted, as a flash flew off the lieutenant’s shoulder, indicating he’d been hit.

  It didn’t seem to faze the man, nor the glow of an energy beam that briefly flashed an orange corona around him, before he dropped prone beside, but slightly farther forward, to Hondo. With his head just over the brow, he could see across to the knoll.

  If the lieutenant was going to do that . . .

  Hondo eased forward until he could see the knoll as well. It was under intense fire, but it was dishing out as well as taking it in, with most of the fire aimed back at Cara.

  “We’ve got a tank,” Tony B shouted.

  Impossible! No way they could have gotten one down from their ship. We’d have seen it!

  But something had just appeared on his display. Hondo raised his head, and a Mouse burst through an acacia bush not 30 meters from Second Team.

  The Mouse was sort of a joke among the Federation Marines. It was a tiny armored vehicle, barely a meter high, which could be airdropped or even shot out of a long-range launcher. It was remote controlled or could go full AI mode, and it could carry an array of modular weapons.

  It might be a joke, but the wide-bore cannon staring Hondo down looked plenty big to him. The gun belched out a round, which Hondo heard as it whizzed over his head on its way to Second Squad before the tube started traversing down towards the First Squad Marines. Grenades started slamming into it as his Marines took it under fire, but without effect. This wasn’t a PICS which had to have room inside for the Marine. This was a slab of armor carrying a weapon and powerpack, nothing more.

  “Watch for the corporal!” PFC Joseph shouted.

  Marasco, still alive, was prone as the Mouse advanced, the ricocheting grenades posed a threat to him. The Mouse, though, posed a threat to everyone else.

  And then Marasco moved, rolling his broken body over as the Mouse passed. He raised his M56 as it passed, and at point-blank range, fired into the powerpack. The Mouse disappeared in a tremendous explosion, and Corporal Marasco’s avatar changed to the red of a KIA. Joseph’s change to WIA.

  Pieces of Marasco’s PICS were scattered, part of his poleyn bouncing to a stop a meter from Hondo. To his right, the lieutenant stood, looking back towards Second Squad, waving his arms. Hondo wasn’t on that net, so he couldn’t hear what the platoon commander was telling Cara.

  As he watched, something else hit the lieutenant, staggering him forward a step until his gyros kicked in.

  Forward? To the enemy?

  No, there’re more behind us, he realized.

  Hondo stood, and to the east, a small crevice snaked its way north and south. It didn’t look like much, but his AI was picking up incoming, and the position was in defilade to Second Squad. Even if they weren’t engaged with the knoll, they couldn’t provide cover.

  “First and Third, with me!” he shouted, forwarding a big huge green flag on their displays.

  Within a heartbeat, the four Marines were racing after him as he charged forward, trying to cover the 350 meters as fast as humanly possible—correction, as fast as possible for a Marine in a PICS.

  One hundred, two hundred meters, and he was barely aware of straight-leg infantry scrambling back before their onslaught. With a grin, Hondo switched his magazine to darts just as his PICS howled out its warning siren. He was under fire from a beam weapon, and his shields were failing.

  “Mother fuck, another Mouse!” he shouted out as the armored gun poked its projector over the edge of the wash.

  Hondo tried to juke to the left, but his reflexes could not match that of the Mouse’s AI, and the beam was locked on. His shields were down to 20% and failing fast.

  A Chimera fired, hitting the Mouse’s projector, and the beam fell off of him.

  “Mother of God,” Hondo whispered.

  His shield was at 17%, and his power was at 27%.

  But the Mouse was damaged, not taken out. Hanaburgh had fired his Chimera, and the AI brain now identified him as the major threat. The projector, damaged, but still functional, locked onto the Marine and fired, the beam far more dispersed, but still strong enough to take down a PICS.

  “Support Burger!” Hondo shouted as he fired his darts, clanging them off the Mouse in a flurry of sparks.

  Hanaburgh was down to one missile, not that it made much difference. He had to break the lock. But he didn’t dodge, he didn’t juke. He picked up his armored legs and charged the Mouse, his Chimera in the launch sleeve. He couldn’t even fire because the beam would destroy the missile at that range.

  He’s trying to close the range!

  Hondo pulled up Hanaburgh’s stats, and his shields were failing, down to 50, then 40, then 30 as he closed the gap.

  “Now, Burger, now!” Hondo shouted out.

  At 8% and 20 meters away, Hanaburgh fired his missile and juked to his right. It streaked forward, a plume of disintegrating casing sloughing off, before it hit.

  There wasn’t a dramatic explosion, and Hondo held his breath. The meson beam sputtered on and off, but the projector no longer tracked Hanaburgh. Pickerul raced forward to the side of it, placed her foot at the top of the mouse, and pushed, knocking it upside down. The projector kept sputtering as it fired into the dirt, soil evaporating under the power of the beam.

  “Hooah, Burger, fucking hooah!” she shouted over her externals.

  “Hooah!” Hondo joined in with the FCDC battle cry.

  Five Brotherhood soldiers stood up from where they were hiding at the back of the wash, hands in the air.

  “If you’re done hollering, we’re surrendering,” one of them, an officer of some type, said.

  “All of you, on them,” Hondo passed to four Marines, breaking the exultation.

  “You, sit down, hands on your heads,” he said over his externals, pointing his M90 in emphasis.

  It was only then that he noticed that the duel between Second Squad and the soldiers on the knoll was over. He checked his display. One of the Second Squad Marines was KIA, but the rest, along with the lieutenant, Doc Leach, and Tony B, were fine. Joseph was still WIA, and Doc was already on him.

  “Sir, we’ve got five EPWs. One looks like an officer.”

  “Secure them. I’ll be right there.”

  The SOP for handling EPWs did not include PICS, but Hondo was not going to tell anyone to molt to secure them. He was just going to keep them sitting for the moment.

  “Johnson, Pickerul, watch them,” he ordered.

  He turned and went to Hanaburgh, pulling up the Marines stats. His shield was almost gone, and his power was at 22%.

  “You OK?” he asked.

  “Never better,” the lance corporal answered.

  “That was some shit, ther
e.”

  It was pretty much impossible to shrug in a PICS, but he tilted his head slightly to the right in the PICS version of one.

  Hondo didn’t know what to add to that, so he checked out the Mouse, which was still sputtering away, beaming a hole in the dirt. The stupid thing had almost killed him. It would have, had it not been for Hanaburgh. He gave it a kick, and it let out a satisfying string of sparks.

  The lieutenant arrived, went right up to the EPWs and said, “I’m Second Lieutenant Armando Abrams, United Federation Marine Corps. Who are you?”

  The officer-looking guy—Hondo was not up on Brotherhood insignia—said, “Captain Merit Longfellow, from the Host of the Brotherhood of Servants. I offer you our surrender.”

  “I accept your surrender. I want your assurances that you will not try to prosecute the ongoing fight.”

  “Certainly,” the captain said with a smirk on his face. “For as long as it lasts. As we speak, our own forces are closing in on your camp while your battle suits are here with this token and mostly automated force.”

  Hell, I knew it, Hondo thought, as he took a step forward to stand beside the lieutenant.

  “Yes, we five stopped you in your tracks,” the officer said. “And I am sure you will receive orders to surrender to us soon.”

  Not just five. We killed three of you in your pathetic attempt at an ambush.

  “Orders to surrender? I’m surprised at you, Captain. Sun Tzu said know your enemy, and you obviously don’t know our procedures. Should a commander ever surrender, then other forces, such as my platoon, are free to do as they will. If our commander does surrender, that has no bearing on my platoon.”

  A flicker of doubt crossed the captain’s face.

  “And if your Sauls are being used to attack our camp, which given the distance, is likely, then we have an open path to your camp. I might add, even if you kept some back, that should pose us no problems, just as the three Sauls that tried to ambush us posed no problems to our PICS.”

  This time, the look of concern on the man’s face was plain.

  “I suggest that you call whoever you want. Ask your commander to check the Federation UCMJ, Paragraph 2.02.14. We’ll give you time. After all, we can cover eight klicks in ten minutes.”

  At this, the man’s face went white. If Hondo understood the lieutenant’s meaning, then the Brotherhood camp was eight klicks away. How the platoon commander knew that was a mystery to him, however.

  The captain pointed to his belt, and once given permission, put an earbud in his ear and a mic on his throat.

  “Lieutenant, how did you know where their camp is?” Hondo asked on the P2P, as the captain consulted with his commander.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But I saw his reaction.”

  “I guessed. They walked here, so that limited their range. If I looked around, there were only two logical places for it to be.”

  “So, how did you pick the one?”

  “I didn’t. They were both about the same distance, so I left it at that. Let him think I knew which one.”

  Hondo laughed, then said, “Ooh-rah, Lieutenant.”

  Thirty minutes later, the lieutenant got the call from Captain Ariç. He walked up to the captain, who was sweating as he sat in the dirt.

  “You are free to go,” he told him.

  The man looked up, surprise all over his face.

  “So, you mean you surrender?” he asked hopefully.

  “Are you high, sir? We’re Marines. Of course, we don’t surrender.”

  Hondo could picture the lieutenant scowling inside his PICS at the question.

  “Then . . . then, what’s going on?”

  “Our commanders have spoken, and let’s say that they’ve reached an agreement that our little fight is over. Your force is on its way back, and we’ll return to our camp to await extract. We have given the coordinates of your dead, so you can recover them.”

  The Brotherhood captain gaped at the lieutenant, so he added, “I would suggest you move, Captain. As EPWs your freedom was not a foregone conclusion, and that could still change.”

  At those words, two of the other soldiers jumped up, one with a “Fuck that shit,” and started walking off. The other three, including the captain, immediately followed.

  EARTH

  Chapter 24

  Skylar

  “If the Klethos do decide to intervene,” Sky said, using the term instead of “attack,” as her political handlers insisted, “. . .then no one comes out ahead.”

  “I’m glad you are coming around to our side,” Bishop van Meter said. “The Klethos are an abomination and a threat to humanity. We cannot work them.”

  You are misconstruing my words, as you well know.

  This was their second meeting, and it was just as mired in the mud as the last one. Sky had given a full report to the minister, telling him that they needed someone more experienced in diplomacy to handle the contact, but he assured her that she’d done well and that she was still the point-person. He’d said the choice of van Meter to represent the Brotherhood was unfortunate, but as Sky was a scientist first, she provided a better face forward than a career diplomat.

  “We are allied with them, Bishop van Meter. This has happened, and there’s no use to litigate the past. We are now approaching a crisis point, and how we both proceed can have drastic consequences to humanity’s very future.”

  “As will continued subservience to the Klethos when your actions draw the Dictymorphs into human space again.”

  Sky kept a straight face. The Brotherhood claim about human cooperation—not subservience, as the bishop put it—with the Klethos had almost certainly drawn the Dictymorphs into the attack on Purgamentium. But she was equally certain that it had merely hastened the process. The Dictymorphs were slowly but surely heading their way. The one base truth that had to be acknowledged was that humanity’s best chance at defeating the Dictymorph threat was to ally themselves with the Klethos. It boggled her mind that any rational person or government couldn’t understand that.

  “They are coming again, whether we like it or not.”

  “Which is your fault.”

  “Whether we like it or not,” she repeated. “So, we can quibble about blame, or we can look to the future and what we can do about it. And the first step is to ensure that the Klethos do not intervene in our family squabble.”

  The bishop said nothing, so Sky continued, “If the Klethos do intervene, surely that is not something your alliance wants.”

  “The Klethos are not nearly as numerous as we once thought. It is our belief that we can defeat them.”

  Sky had to keep from rolling her eyes. Yes, the Federation’s own analysts had come to the same conclusion, but there would be huge casualties, possibly into the hundreds of billions.

  “At a significant cost, which would cripple us in the fight with the Dictymorphs.”

  “Which wouldn’t happen with the Klethos gone. There would be no conflict with the Dictymorphs.”

  Do you believe that claptrap, or is this some sort of diplomatic game?

  “If you believe the Dictymorphs are not coming, then you are sadly mistaken,” she said, unable to keep the note of scorn out of her voice.

  The corner of the bishop’s mouth broke into the tiniest of smiles, as if he’d scored a point. If he had, Sky had no idea what it was, nor did she particularly care.

  “Vice-minister, let me ask you,” the bishop said, a predatory gleam in his eye. “If the Klethos do decide to attack us, fellow humans with whom your Federation has shared centuries of peace and mutual defense, what will you do? Will the UAM come to our defense?”

  Skylar didn’t need to be a diplomat, she didn’t need to see Keyshon stiffen in his seat beside her, to know she was treading on dangerous ground. Scientist or not, she was an official representative from the Federation if not the UAM.

  “I am here to make sure we maintain the peace between us, Bishop.”

  “You
didn’t answer the question, Vice-Minister.”

  Nor will I.

  “I’ll repeat, I am here to maintain the peace.”

  Sky wasn’t sure, but it looked like he was disappointed. Maybe he was hoping to take advantage of her inexperience. She gave him a steady stare, trying to keep her face expressionless.

  He seemed about to answer when he stopped, and his face took on the look of somebody listening to a conversation—which was against the agreed-upon rules of the meeting. There were to be no recording devices nor communications to the outside world.

  His face slowly hardened, and he turned to her, his voice low but full of menace, as he said, “If you are here to keep the peace, why are your Marines attacking our shipwrecked crew on Lore? Answer me that, Vice-Minister.”

  Hell, Lore again? What’s going on there?

  Sky didn’t understand why the two sides just didn’t go in and pick up their survivors and be done with it. She knew both the Federation and Brotherhood had ships standing by, waiting for the details to be worked out to affect the rescue.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you are talking about. I’ve honored the rules for these meetings, and I have no communications with my embassy.”

  He didn’t even pretend to look guilty but instead stared at her with an iron gaze.

  “Mr. DeAngelo, if you would please step outside our host’s embassy and find out to what the bishop is referring?” she asked.

  Keyshon left the room, and Sky and the two Brotherhood reps stared at each other for a few moments until the bishop got another message.

  He turned to his assistant, whispered in the man’s ear, and the two of them stood up.

  “This meeting is over,” he said. “It’s up to the first brother and your chairman now to sort things out.”

  He seemed about to say something else, but he evidently thought the better of it. He left the room. Their Swiss minder asked him something that Sky missed, and a moment later, she stuck her head into the room.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Vice-Minister?”