Enemy in the Dark

by Jay Allan

  He slowly eased his rifle off his back and double-checked the magazine. Once he whipped around the corner he knew things would move quickly. He’d have to make a split-second decision on what he faced and, if they were enemies, take them down before they did the same to him.

  Blackhawk wished he had the Twins with him for the fight he suspected was coming, but the two brothers would have been too loud stomping down the corridor. He knew the entire facility had to be on alert already, and he needed to keep whatever shreds of tactical surprise he had left.

  He took several deep breaths, exhaling slowly, quietly. He closed his eyes and centered himself, preparing his psyche for the battle trance. He had been bred for fighting and trained to surrender himself to his instincts in combat.

  Blackhawk spun around the corner, staring straight ahead. There was a group of men standing around in a small room at the end of the hall. His eyes were focused like lasers, and he saw two of them as they began to react to his presence. He knew immediately they were enemies.

  Moving instinctively down and to the side, Blackhawk ducked away from where he knew the guards would target their fire. As he did, his own gun began to spit out death, ten rounds a second ripping through the air toward his targets.

  He felt time slow, as it always did when he fell into the trance. He could hear the rounds his rifle fired individually, each tenth of a second slipping by, marked by the crack of another deadly shot.

  Blackhawk could feel the bullets of his enemies, too, zipping by into the empty space where he’d been standing an instant before. His eyes were locked on the figures down the hall, and he saw as the first one went down, struck by at least three of his shots.

  The guard fell back, and for an instant a spray of blood filled the air where he had stood. He was still dropping backward when Blackhawk’s rifle moved to the left, almost cutting another guard in half with its fire.

  Two.

  Blackhawk dropped to one knee, steadying himself and moving his weapon yet again, taking another guard in the head.

  Three.

  He let his knee give out, dropping onto his belly as a burst of fire blasted just above him. He shot again, taking his target in the leg. Then another hit in the midsection. The guard had been about to fire, but now his gun slipped from his hands as he crumpled and fell.

  Four.

  The last guard dove to the side, leaping for cover. Blackhawk saw him disappear behind the wall, out of sight.

  “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. He was screwed if his enemy could bring a weapon to bear from behind cover. Blackhawk was in the middle of the corridor, with nowhere to hide.

  He dropped his rifle and pushed himself up with his hands, bending his knees and springing himself forward with all his strength. He still felt as if he was operating in slow motion, conscious of every fraction of a second that ticked by. For an instant he didn’t know if his push had been strong enough to take him past the corner, where he’d have a shot at his adversary.

  His hand reached to his side as he lunged, whipping out his trustworthy pistol. It was an old piece of imperial tech itself, a tiny coilgun with enough power to fire a dozen rounds at hypersonic velocities between charges.

  Blackhawk swung around, bringing the gun to bear as he sailed past the corner. His enemy was turning just as he did, bringing an assault rifle—a Hellfire—around. He ignored it, pushing aside any concern about the gun’s deadly projectiles. His eyes locked on his target as his finger squeezed firmly on the trigger.

  Feeling the recoil as his pistol fired, he saw his enemy twist hard to the side, his own shot going wide as he did. Blackhawk hit the ground with a thud, despite his instinctive efforts to take the fall in a graceful roll. He felt the pain as his shoulder slammed into the stone floor, but he managed to hold on to his pistol as he spun around and leaped back to his feet. He turned and scanned the room, checking for any remaining threats. He was light-headed from the fall, but he forced himself to focus. He looked over at his last opponent. He was lying on his back, dead. Blackhawk’s shot had taken off the top half of his head.

  And that’s five.

  He stumbled around the room, checking the others. Only one was still alive, but he wouldn’t be for long. He lay in a pool of his own blood, staring up at Blackhawk in disbelief as he gasped desperately for his last few breaths.

  Blackhawk stood still, breathing deeply, regularly, following the battle mantra he’d been taught so long ago. He felt his focus returning, the pain from his injured shoulder receding. He turned and scanned the room again. There was a single large door, reinforced iron with a key lock to the side.

  He began searching the guards. The last one he’d killed had a card in his pocket. Blackhawk turned and walked back to the door. Then he stopped dead.

  Did I just hear . . .

  Multiple footsteps approaching. Estimate ten plus, approximately fifty meters down the north corridor.

  Blackhawk took a deep breath and scooped up his rifle, ducking behind the corner as he ejected the clip and slammed a new one in place.

  Ten more. Just great. He paused and took another breath. That’s just fucking great.

  “Captain Rhemus is dead. His company is on your right flank. I want you to take command. With his men added to yours, you should be pretty close to full strength.” Colonel Martine’s voice was hoarse and the tension obvious in his tone. But he was steady, and it was clear he was firmly in charge, despite the losses his regiment had taken.

  “Yes, Colonel.” Zel felt a twinge in his gut. Rhemus had been his friend since the two had been junior lieutenants. He was a good officer, and he would be sorely missed—by his peers and by the men he so ably led.

  And his wife and two children.

  “Your people are to be commended, Captain,” Martine was saying. “You are at the forefront of the advance. One more big push and the enemy lines will break.” The colonel was a veteran, one who typically addressed a battlefield situation with calm deliberation and not wishful thinking. But now, Zel figured the regiment’s commander was halfway between the two. The vicious attacks had definitely pushed the Nordlingener forces back. But he wasn’t sure they were quite on the verge of breaking. Not yet. Still, he couldn’t fault Martine for needing to see some payoff for the men he’d lost. Soldiers dealt with the deaths of their comrades in many ways, but no one wanted to think their friends had died for nothing.

  “Thank you, sir. The boys have been giving their all.” Zel was an enthusiastic follower of Marshal Lucerne’s philosophy. Credit for victory begins at the bottom of the organizational chart, and the men in the trenches, fighting it out along the line, deserved the largest share.

  “Your men have performed admirably, Captain. They are to be commended.” A short pause. “But there is little time for well-deserved rest, I’m afraid. I want you to be ready to move forward again at 1730. The entire regiment will be attacking. We’re going to break the enemy lines once and for all and finish this fight.”

  Zel hesitated. Half an hour wasn’t much of a break for his exhausted soldiers, and it didn’t give him a lot of time to consolidate his two companies. But he realized Martine was right. It was hard to push his exhausted troops so hard, but time would only benefit the enemy. They were disordered now, on the run. Staying hard on their heels was the right tactical move. And pushing his soldiers now might end the fight sooner—and save a lot of their lives in the longer run.

  “Yes, sir. We’ll be ready.”

  “Very well, Captain. Martine out.”

  Zel turned and looked over toward Sergeant Bella. He almost hit the communicator clipped to his collar to call the noncom, but Bella was only twenty yards away. “Sergeant Bella,” he yelled.

  The veteran turned and ran over. “Sir!”

  “Bella, I need you to go to Captain Rhemus’s company command post straightaway. Rhemus is dead, and we’re merging what’s left of their formation with ours. Figure out who is left over there and tell them to take position on o
ur right, extending our line from Tarik’s platoon.” Zel could have called over on the comm, but he suspected things were a mess after Rhemus’s death. He only had half an hour, and he knew Bella would see his orders carried out. The sergeant was a twenty-year veteran, and Zel was sure he wouldn’t let some half-hysterical lieutenant push him around.

  “Yes, sir.” Bella didn’t salute. By all accounts, the enemy had pulled back completely, but the company was still in the battle zone.

  “Go, Sergeant. And if anybody gives you shit, call me immediately.” Zel nodded. “Dismissed.”

  Zel turned and looked out over his men. They were sitting on rocks, piles of debris, anything that got them off the wet, muddy ground. Most of them were still eating. It was the first real meal they’d had in two days, and the chance to eat something other than a nutrition bar was something veteran soldiers rarely passed up.

  He would have to get them up and organized for the attack soon, but for now he’d let them have another fifteen minutes of rest, miserable reward though it was for what they’d been through. Then he would order them back into the line. And more of them would die.

  Blackhawk had his back pressed up against the cold stone wall. He pulled the release on his rifle, sending another spent cartridge flying across the room. He reached around his belt for his last one.

  He’d stopped trying to get an accurate count of the enemy soldiers bunched up in the hallway. He’d taken down eight, but more had come, and they were stacked up behind the corners of the passageway. His accurate fire had turned the connecting hallway into a death zone, and he’d managed to keep his attackers at bay. But he was almost out of ammo now, and he knew they’d rush him as soon as he emptied the last magazine.

  The captain had almost called the others, but he still didn’t know the king was down here. For all he knew, he’d been given misinformation, sent into a trap in the bowels of the palace while the king sat laughing in bed. Maybe the others were closer. There was no point in dragging them down here, especially if it was a trap. He wasn’t going to get his friends killed to save himself.

  He glanced around the corner, his eyes focusing instantly on one of the enemy doing the same. His hands moved swiftly, and he fired a single shot. The target fell instantly, blood pouring from the between his eyes.

  That’s nine. But I’d wager there are another ten over there. Maybe more. He glanced down at his rifle. I need to make these shots count.

  He stood still, listening for any moves. He could hear his enemies talking among themselves, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  They are discussing an attack with gas grenades. Apparently, they are expecting further reinforcements so armed momentarily.

  Blackhawk nodded. He wasn’t sure exactly how Hans was able to use his own senses with greater effectiveness than his own brain, but he couldn’t question something he’d seen hundreds of times either.

  I would suggest that time is not your ally at present.

  When has it ever been for me? Any idea what I should do about it?

  Your options seem limited at present. If you are unwilling to call for aid, I am unable to devise an alternate exit strategy.

  If I call any of the crew they will come. And they’ll just get stuck down here with me. No. We either get out of this ourselves or we don’t.

  Your attitude is courageous, at least within the computational range of my limited understanding of human emotions and motivations. But your parameters severely restrict your options. Our options, as you acknowledge with your use of the pronoun “we.”

  Blackhawk’s head snapped around. There was a burst of fire, and the sound was coming from a distance.

  That is a 50 mm autocannon. Correction: two autocannons.

  The Twins! He hadn’t called them, but they were coming anyway.

  Now he could hear return fire. Just a few guns, and the sound was sporadic. The cracks of the assault rifles sounded almost like children’s toys next to the loud bang of the big automatic weapons. He felt a rush of adrenaline, and he gave himself up to instinct again, taking a deep breath and spinning around the corner, racing down the hallway.

  There were bodies all over, the men he’d killed, and another pile at the intersection. The newer corpses were almost torn to shreds by the heavy projectiles from the autocannons.

  Tarq came down the hallway, firing as he ran. “Glad to see you in one piece, Cap,” he said as he passed by Blackhawk, pursuing the last of the guards as they fled down the hall.

  Tarnan came up behind his brother. He’d slung the autocannon back over his shoulder and drawn his massive claymore. The blade was polished steel, over a meter long, and it was thick and heavy. Blackhawk had lifted the thing before, and he’d have bet it weighed fifteen kilos, maybe more. He could see the muscles flexed in Tarnan’s massive arm as he held the terrible weapon, ready to strike.

  “We figured you could use some backup, Captain.” The giant stood in the intersection, surrounded by bodies.

  “You figured right, my friend.” He hadn’t wanted to call the Twins and get them trapped with him, but sometimes he forgot just what a pair of true killing machines they were. They’d cleared the enemy position in less than a minute, obliterating everyone in sight. Tarq returned a few seconds later, having blown the last of the fleeing guards into bloody chunks.

  “Thanks for the assist, guys.” Blackhawk held his elation in check. He knew more enemy soldiers would come and they were far from out of the woods yet. But things were looking better than they had a few minutes before. “We need to get this door open.” He pulled out the card he’d taken earlier, but the plate around the slot was riddled with bullet holes. He slid the card in anyway just to be sure, but nothing happened.

  “Shit,” he muttered, jamming it in again, as much out of frustration as expectation it would work.

  “Step back, sir.” He felt Tarq’s huge hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him to the side.

  The giant aimed the heavy autocannon where the door met the locking mechanism, and he opened fire. The heavy slugs tore the plate apart and pounded huge dents in the metal door itself. After a few seconds of fire, Tarq turned toward his brother and nodded. Then he hurled himself at the stricken door.

  The entire room shook as his massive weight slammed into the straining iron. The door rattled and almost gave way, the broken remnants of the lock almost breaking. But it held—barely. He took a deep breath and pulled back, throwing himself once again at the door, even harder than the first time.

  The metal groaned for an instant before the lock shattered and the door slammed open. Tarq went tumbling through the now-open portal, landing hard on the stone floor inside the room.

  Blackhawk ran in right behind. Tarq’s solution wasn’t elegant, but Blackhawk couldn’t argue with its effectiveness. “Are you okay?” he yelled, as he hurried over to his crewman.

  “Yeah, Captain.” Tarq was picking himself up slowly. “Shoulder hurts a little, but no big deal.”

  Tarnan had walked in behind the two, and he was facing to the side, holding his massive blade watchfully over a single man sitting on a bench.

  Blackhawk turned to face the prisoner. He was wearing a pair of canvas trousers and a matching tunic, clearly some kind of prison uniform. His blond hair was long and filthy, twisted into large clumps that hung about his face. He looked up at the newcomers, his blue eyes bright and defiant despite his situation.

  “Who are you?” Blackhawk demanded, holding up his hand and motioning for Tarnan to pull his blade back. The man did not look threatening, though he bore himself with a certain stature, despite his position.

  “I am Gustav Algonquin. The king of Nordlingen.”

  CHAPTER 18

  AUGUSTIN LUCERNE SAT ON THE EDGE OF HIS BED, RUBBING HIS face with his hands. Maximus, the larger of Celtiboria’s two moons, was high in the night sky, and his windows glowed with its reflected light. It had been even brighter earlier, but Minimus had since set, leaving its larger sibl
ing to stand watch alone until dawn’s first rays.

  Lucerne knew morning wasn’t far, barely an hour. He’d always struggled to sleep, but things had only gotten worse since his final victory on Celtiboria. So long it had been his goal, the driving force of his existence, yet its attainment had produced so little joy—and no rest, no peace. Only a sharpened focus of all that remained to be done. There were so many wars to fight, so much treachery to counter, endless terms to negotiate.

  He’d expected some of it, but other problems had taken him by surprise. When his wars had been restricted to his home world, he’d been close to his officers and men. He’d shared their risks, their deprivations. But now his armies were scattered across light-years of space. Their losses—their pain—were now reduced to words on an endless stream of reports. He hated the pointless luxury of the palace, despised the meetings, loathed the diplomats. He wished he could walk through the door, to lead his men in the field as he had for three decades. But duty was still his master, and it had taken him from the battlefield and cast him into the webs of ambassadors, politicians, and businessmen.

  Rest had always been elusive, but now it had become a forgotten dream. He’d slept some, two hours in total perhaps, though as usual it had been fitful and broken into short stretches. He was tired. Indeed, he’d never felt so worn, so used up. So old. Yet sleep still played its frustrating game with him.

  The worries weighed on him, more even than usual. His armies had fought with their accustomed courage and success, but some of them had run into greater resistance than expected. He wasn’t concerned about the final outcomes of those battles. He had every confidence his people would prevail. But he mourned the extra losses, thousands more dead soldiers than he’d anticipated. And he was troubled by the unknown. Someone was opposing him, interfering with his campaigns. He wasn’t sure who it was, but he’d considered every reasonable option, and every one of them was bad news.