Gracie’s Marines conducted a thorough search of the installation, which was smaller than their own station, but big enough to house quite a bit of gear. Shaan found a closet that served as an armory, and as Gracie and Captain Lysander examined the cache, complete with small arms and longer-range weapons, including a 15 mega-joule hadron beam projector similar to the weapon destroyed on Calcutta, Gracie kept thinking that none of the prisoners had that mercenary air about them. She was pretty sure that there were some operators roaming around who had not been arrested in the sweep.
She felt better when all of the weapons were loaded aboard the shuttle, along with the prisoners and everything else confiscated. As the shuttle pilot lifted off to return them to the station and to take the prisoners up to the ship, she wondered who’d been left behind, and what those people might do now that their employers were gone.
Chapter 45
66
Two days after the capture of the J-F lab, the captain and Manny Chun led another raid on a small installation 500 klicks to the south and just at the twilight line at the edge of eternal night. The three bodies there had suicided with brain wipes just minutes before the Marines and the IS team broke into their small, shielded shelter—there’d be no chance of a resurrection for any of them. Some of their equipment was Brotherhood, but not enough to make a declarative statement as to their origin one way or the other. Their DNA was scanned and forwarded, but if they were from the Brotherhood PHM or another high-level security organization, there would be no record in any public data base that they ever existed.
The aggressive nature of their recent efforts bothered Gracie. This was not a war zone, at least officially. And Saanvi Veer’s words had begun to weigh heavily in her thoughts. Gracie did not join the Marines to bolster some company’s bottom line but to protect Federation citizens. She bit her tongue, though, and said nothing. In such close quarters, discord could quickly escalate into a bad situation.
She did discuss the situation with Bomba, however, and she was relieved that his feelings and thoughts reflected hers. At least she wasn’t alone.
The two of them were in the bunkroom, sitting across from each other, knees almost touching in the cramped quarters, discussing whether there would be pushback to their recent actions when that question was answered. The alarms went off as an explosion rocked the station. The two Marines pulled on the ever-present masks hanging from their belts and dashed out into the common room.
Smoke was pouring from the lab, and the geeks were stumbling out. Two of the idiots didn’t even have their masks, and Tennerife was helping one of the coughing scientists with an emergency hood. Gracie almost tackled the second geek, pulling him to the wall and throwing another hood over his head.
The red flashing light switched to yellow as the klaxon shifted to a slightly more tolerable chiming.
“Is there anyone else in there?” she asked Dr. Tantou, who looked dazed.
He did a quick headcount, then shook his head no.
“I want all of you in full enviro-suits,” she told him. “Now.”
“Dutch, get a hold of the captain, then stay here with the g. . .science team. Tibone, take Shaan, Tenner, and those three,” she said, pointing to three IS team troopers who had rushed in, “and get weaponed up. This could be a diversion. If it is, weapons free.
“Bomba, JC, and Spig, full HED 2s. We need to assess the damage.”
Several of the scientists sat down in shock, but the Marines and the troopers rushed to comply.
“I can’t raise the captain,” Dutch said.
“Keep trying.”
Within a minute, Gracie and the three other Marines were opening the lab door. The yellow light indicated that there was no longer an active breach, but still, Gracie was relieved when there wasn’t a rush of air in or out of the lab.
The main lab was full of smoke that hung about eye-level, but there didn’t seem to be much in the way of damage. Flickering lights in the bio-cell were a good indication that the main damage was in there.
Weapons drawn, the four, using their best room-to-room techniques, entered the room. It was a mess. Debris littered the deck, but what caught their eyes was the meter-wide gap in the walls. Light from Kepler 9813 streamed into the room. The warning light remained a steady yellow—the room had been contaminated, but the breach had self-sealed.
“Gracie, look at this,” Bomba said, toeing a fin assembly that lay up against some cabinets.
The four-finned, ten-centimeter-long assembly told the story. Someone had hit the station with the rocket, blowing a hole in the wall of the bio-cell and exploding inside. The station’s damage control system had almost immediately covered the breach with its life-support field.
Gracie didn’t recognize the make of the rocket, but comparing it with Federation munitions, it probably had a range of 12 klicks or so.
“Gunny, I finally got through to the captain. They’re inbound, and she says Alert Condition Alpha but to stay in place until she gets back,” Dutch passed over the circuit.
Gracie and Bomba had just been discussing that the reaction might be to their rounding up other installations. She guessed she had that answer now.
Chapter 46
66
“I’ve got it at 4,565 meters,” Dutch told Gracie.
Shit. That’s too far.
The station had been hit five more times since the first rocket strike. The lab itself had been abandoned, and everyone while in the station was in the common room and suited up 100% of the time. The captain had tried to get the geeks off the planet, but that request had been denied. Whether that was an Allied Biologicals or Federation call, Gracie didn’t know.
The Porto was still out in the far reaches of the system somewhere. The captain had requested she take a synchronous orbit overhead to be able to provide her superior fire support, but once again, that request was turned down. At least Gracie understood the reasoning behind that. It had become more apparent that there was another man-of-war in the system, probably Brotherhood, and any ship taking station over the planet opened herself up to a pretty significant risk.
The captain had immediately sent out her scout-sniper teams in a cordon around the station, but they’d had little effect. The incoming was fired from eight or nine kilometers out, and with the captain keeping the teams no further than three klicks from the station, the ranges were just too great. Both T-Bone and Brooke had tried to engage targets at almost five klicks, but without effect.
Now, Dutch and Gracie had activity, but out of range. Three men were manhandling a launcher up a small slope. They were in bulky suits, which was impeding their progress, but within five minutes, ten at the most, they should be in position to fire at the station.
Gracie wasn’t sure how they’d arrived in the area. She couldn’t see any signs of a vehicle, and if they had one, she didn’t think they’d be physically pushing the launcher up the slope.
“Call T-bone and see if he’s got eyes on them,” she told Dutch.
She only half-listened in while she kept her Miller on the targets. Her finger ached to squeeze the trigger, but she knew that would be a mistake.
“That’s a negative, Gunny. They can’t even see the bad guys.”
There goes that option.
The Barrett could throw a round that far, even out to about six klicks, but without much in the way of accuracy. Tiny inconsistencies in the round, coupled with simple chaos theory, made hitting a target at such distances all but impossible. Barretts had been at the leading edge of range for kinetic small arms for the last five or six hundred years, and the W series was the best Barrett yet, but no matter improvements in the weapons, distance was still a cruel master. The current record was an amazing 4,188-meter shot taken by Staff Guard Master Henriks Smith of the New Budapest Army, a record that had stood for almost 49 years.
Gracie contemplated making a quick stalk, trying to close the distance. There was a depression about a klick in front of her, and at 3,500 meters
, she might be able to take them out. But she’d almost have to run across the intervening distance, an open terrain which would give her not much in the way of cover.
“You might as well take the shot, Gunny,” Dutch said.
“It’s too far.”
“If you don’t hit them, at least you might make them abandon their position.”
“Only to pop up somewhere else.”
“Sure, Gunny, but if we don’t do anything, they’re sure-as-shit gonna fire a couple of them bad boys at the station. Eventually, one of them is gonna seeing-eye it into the common room, and we’ll have dead geeks to clean up.”
He was right, she knew. Her mind started churning with a firing solution. Forty-five-hundred meters just wasn’t programmed into the scope’s AI. Bullet drop and all the other factors were magnified as the round slowed down. Then again, without planetary rotation, firing on Kepler 9813 B was easier in some aspects. Wind might gust, but it was generally from one main direction to another, nightside to dayside. She started feeling a little excited as she thought about it. Forty-five-sixty-five. That would be a feather in her cap.
“What’s the longest you’ve done?”
“What, on a live target? Three-seven-oh-three. On Duluth 3,” she said.
“No, I mean any shot. Like on a range. I know you, and I know you’ve tried.”
Of course, I’ve tried. All snipers had tried.
“On Tarawa. Halstone Impact Area, range 612. I hit a stationary target at 4,245 meters.”
“So this isn’t much more than that,” Dutch said matter-of-factly as if pointing out the obvious.
“Yes it is, and that was with a stationary target and known variables. And it took me three shots to walk it in. In case you haven’t noticed, those are walking targets out there.”
But Gracie had already decided. She was going to take the shot.
“Not walking fast, pushing that thing,” Dutch said.
Gracie switched her scope AI to manual and started entering data. She threw out Coriolis and rotational drift, but kept in spin drift, backing off a bit as the round’s rotation would slow down. That could introduce some wobble, which would make the drop even greater as it got closer to the targets. The factors affecting the trajectory banged around inside her brain pan, and in the end, she applied a hefty amount of Kentucky windage.
“You’ve got your wish, Sergeant. I’m taking the shot.”
“I knew it,” Dutch said, excitement in his voice. “I knew you couldn’t resist.”
“You just keep your eyes peeled and give me any corrections.”
Her hand automatically went to her throat to pull out her Hog’s Tooth. Being in her HED 2 nixed that, and Gracie frowned. She knew she didn’t need it, but just as her famous ancestor War Chief Joe Medicine Crow went into battle during WWII with a sacred eagle feather under his helmet, she would have felt a lot better with the tooth in her mouth.
You have it Crow. Just around your neck. Same thing.
She selected the lead man, the one pulling the launcher as her target. If she managed to get him, maybe the launcher would roll back and crush the other two pushing it. She put the crosshairs directly on his shoulder, then led him by about half a meter. If she’d calculated correctly, the round would impact about five seconds later, taking him down.
Easy peasy.
“You ready?” she asked Dutch, not taking her eyes off her scope.
“Good to go.”
Gracie took in a deep breath, then let half of it out, willing her pulse to slow down. She slowly squeezed the trigger, and was almost surprised when the round went off. The big gun kicked against her shoulder, and when Gracie re-acquired the sight picture, the round hadn’t even covered half of the distance, its vapor trail mapping the trace. It might have been something in the planet’s atmosphere, or it might have been Gracie’s hyped senses, but she thought it was the most vivid vapor trail she’d ever seen—and it immediately let her know she was going to miss.
“Left one, up four,” Dutch said from beside her. “Meters.”
Four meters high was a huge miss, even considering the range. She’d given too much weight to the drop, and she’d ruined her chance of a kill.
Except she hadn’t.
When the round hit high on the slope, almost at the top, a puff of dirt marking the spot, the lead man jerked to a stop, then looked around. The two pushing the launcher ran it up his legs, and he turned back to yell something at them. Gracie figured he was telling them they were under fire, but after a moment, he put the strap around his shoulders and started pulling the launcher again.
“I don’t fucking believe it,” Dutch said in wonderment. “They’re still at it.”
Gracie couldn’t believe it, either. She’d be diving for cover if someone was firing at them.
“Adjusting,” she said.
Down four, not so much lead. Easy, easy, squeeeeeze. . .
The round went off, and as she picked up the vapor trail, a thrill ran through her. She might have pulled off the impossible. The trail rose, then started the graceful curve back to her target.
But she missed again.
“Low, half a meter, right one,” Dutch said.
She’d hit just below the man and a step back, under the launcher.
This time, the man jumped, stopped, and looked back. He pointed right where the round had hit, his posture looking like he was questioning them. One of the pushers stepped around from the back of the launcher and looked to where the firstt guy was pointing.
Gracie hastily cycled another round. She was going to nail one of them before they could run, and if not that, she’d try and take the launcher out of action.
“Amazing,” Dutch said.
Gracie was trying to rush the shot, so it took a second to register. They weren’t running. The pusher reached down to finger about where the round impacted, then stood up and shrugged. He stepped back into position, and once again, they started back up the hill.
“Un-fricken-believable,” Gracie muttered.
A wave of calm swept over her. She felts destined. The yobos up there had been given every opportunity to get the hell out of Dodge, and if they refused the invitation being presented to them on a golden platter, who was she to let them off the hook?
Without over-thinking things, she let instinct take over, adjusted her sight picture slightly up and slightly forward. She squeezed the trigger, felt the kick against her shoulder, and was already cycling the next round when her target spun around and fell to the ground.
“Hit!” Dutch screamed. “A mother-fucking hit!”
The nearest pusher, the one who’d come forward to examine where her second round had impacted, had just looked up, giving Gracie a full countenance, when her round hit him square in the chest. It looked almost as if the top half of his torso had come off as he flopped over backward, falling on the third man, who looked up in horror and confusion.
That look lasted for only a second as he took off like a Montana jackrabbit, bounding directly down the slope, not taking the same path as they’d been pushing the launcher. Gracie snapped off two rounds at him, but she wasn’t even sure she’d come close. He disappeared from sight, running too well to have been hit.
Gracie brushed off the minor disappointment, her mind numb with what she’d just done.
Dutch was on his back, legs kicking the air in excitement like an overturned cockroach.
“Oh my sweet Glynis, I’ve never seen shooting like that!” he said, rolling over to slap Gracie on the shoulder. “Copacetic to the max, Gunny! To the max!”
Gracie wasn’t done, though.
“Back on your glasses,” she said.
Slowly and methodically, she fired five more rounds, three of them hitting the launcher. It looked pretty slagged, and after seeing Dutch’s begging puppy-dog eyes, she let him take four shots of his own. The last one could have possibly come within a meter of the launcher, but spotting through his glasses, she told him it was a direct hit.<
br />
“Report it in,” she told Dutch.
Act like you’ve been there before, she kept telling herself as the excited Dutch threatened to envelop her with his enthusiasm.
Still, it was pretty difficult. She was walking on air. Four-thousand-five-hundred-and-sixty-five meters. That was a helluva shot!
Chapter 47
68
Deledriay and Lum each held and arm of the limp body of Vicky Espinoza as they dragged her in through the front hatch. Vicky was face up, her head, or what was left of it, hanging down, leaving a trail of blood and brain matter dripping to the white deck. It took Gracie only a single look to know this was a kill shot. Vicky was gone for good with no chance at a resurrection. Juarez rushed to help, cradling his trooper’s head tenderly as they laid her on the table.
“No POO,[28] but I’ve got an azimuth of 290,” Dutch said, back on the sensor array.
The mission was limited with regard to their sensors. With the Porto so far out, she wasn’t much help, and most of the Marine’s organic sensors had either failed, been jammed, or knocked out. The Porto had left three of their Eagle Eyes in orbit, but other than locating some installations, the surveillance satellites had been surprisingly ineffectual. Gracie thought they were lucky that one of their remaining dragonflies had managed to pick up the trace of the round that had ended Corporal Espinoza’s life.
Captain Lysander stood over Dutch, looking at the map tapes up on the bulkhead. She reached up and ran her finger along rough 290 degrees azimuth away from the station.
“Right there, that’s where I would be,” she said, pointing at a slight rise about 1700 meters away.
That would be the textbook firing position, Gracie agreed—which was why she disagreed with the captain. She was pretty sure whoever had taken the shot was a skilled sniper, and someone that skilled wouldn’t be following the Sniper Firing Positions 101.
“Captain!” Sergeant First Class Juarez shouted out from where he was standing over Espinoza’s body. “What are you going to do about this?”
Sniper (Women of the United Federation Marines Book 2) Page 24