by J. F. Holmes
“Can you give me a grid?” asked Sparks over the radio. “I want to meet you there after you take them down.”
“How about we let you do this one yourself, Sparky?” said Orr.
“How about I’m not stupid, Scotty?”
Knight smiled, and turned to Zlatcov to give her the grid. The shuttle heeled over and dropped out of the range’s airspace, then powered across the landscape, bouncing over hills and valleys. It was a rough ride; although the ship was trans-atmospheric, it was most at home in space. Zlatcov wrestled with the controls, trying to stay below Jamesport’s radar.
They flared into a warehouse area, and the back ramp dropped, hovering fifteen feet off the ground. Fast roping out, the six men and women of Team Poison spread out in a circle, weapons up, and the shuttle lifted back to standoff range. Their target was two rows down in a decrepit part of town, and they had several deserted buildings to pass. The FLIR had shown a large, open building, scattered cargo boxes inside.
With hand signals, they separated into two teams, one for outside security, the other to assault. Knight, Orr and Stenger looked around the corner to the building entrance, where one man stood outside. Shupe, Cahr and Yee continued around another building to get eyes on the rear entrance.
“Stunners only,” signaled Knight. They knew the deal; stunners until they received return fire. Then it was gloves off. He set a timer, counting down in their HUDs, and at zero, Orr stuck his pistol out around the corner, lined up the barrel on the sentry twenty meters away through his camera sight, and fired.
The man crumpled as the electric stunner charge hit him; Knight and Stenger flowed around Orr, covering the distance in seconds with their servo assisted semi-mechs, Orr right behind them. Tank hit the door with both feet, and it crashed down.
The Sergeant Major fired a half dozen stun grenades into the interior, ear splitting cracks and blinding flashes, each accompanied by a neuro whip that, even meters away, set their minds on edge.
One of the figures dropped, and the other three spun and returned fire, inaccurate rounds that were wildly placed. Scramblers did that to you. The three Poison attackers dove for the floor, dropping the stunners and pulling out high velocity carbines. They returned fire in a blistering barrage that caused the three men to scatter behind cargo containers.
“BRAVO, back door, NOW!” shouted Knight into his radio. Even before he’d finished saying it, the rear door to the warehouse blew open, and the other three crew piled in, catching the defenders from behind. One spun and fired, catching Yee in the chest, even as he was cut down by accurate fire from Shupe. The other two fell to shots from Knight and Orr, steady, deliberate fire that punched through their concealment. Despite being hit, the last one got off another burst that hit Orr in the forearm, sabot rounds that punched through the ballistic combat suit he was wearing. He yelled and cursed, even as Cahr drilled the last man in the back.
“ALPHA, MOVING EAST!” shouted Tank into the radio, and he charged up the right side of the warehouse, followed by his two teammates. This wasn’t so different from fighting in a large cargo bay of a ship they were taking down; the objective was to sweep and clear for hostiles, capturing prisoners for ransom if possible.
He spotted his target hiding behind a cargo container, trying to get underneath into an impossibly small space. Stenger grabbed him by the legs and hauled him out, easily fending off the disoriented stab of a vibro knife, stamping on the man’s wrist and breaking it.
“GOT HIM!” he yelled, and jabbed a needle into the struggling man’s neck. His prisoner went from active to still in about thirty seconds. While he waited, Tank heard three single carbine shots, his team finishing off the other men. The guards outside were out of it for at least another half an hour and had seen nothing, but the Jamesport police would be squeezing the shit out of them soon enough.
He threw the captive over his massive shoulder and carried him like a bag of flour to the center of the warehouse, where Shupe was treating Orr’s arm. Yee was gasping, still trying to catch his breath while pulling pieces of shattered ceramic plate from his vest.
Rob Knight opened up the shirt of one of the dead men, took out a light and set it to UV, shining it on his chest. Amidst the blood could be seen the glowing outline of a Fleur-de-Lis, with a stylized number five over it.
“Legionnaire Commandos, Fifth Brigade, specializing in assassination,” whistled Knight. “I think the boys over at MI7 are going to owe us big time for this.”
“What about him?” asked Orr, gritting his teeth in pain. “Can I get some payback for Sarah?”
Knight smiled and said, “That’s the Captain’s business. We just Tommy this and Tommy that, don’t you know? And three of the Fifth is a start, lad. It’s a good start.”
Chapter 31
As they rose through the atmosphere to dock with the Lady Lex, Shupe sat and ran vitals on Orr, making sure he wasn’t going into shock. She was more concerned, though, about Cahr. He was sitting in the jump seat opposite her, weapon cradled unseeing in his arms. His stare went through her and through the bulkhead, and for all she knew, into eternity.
She glanced over at Knight, who was trying to get a pipe lit. When he caught her gaze, she nodded at Cahr. The Sergeant Major got up and sat down next to his apprentice. Reaching over, he placed the carbine on safe, took it out of Cahr’s unresisting hands and gently placed it in a rack.
The Private put his head in his hands and breathed deeply, almost hyperventilating. Knight sat down again next to him and waited.
“Jimmy, lad. Are you OK?”
The teenager shook his head, but said nothing. Knight looked at the others, and they moved away, out of notional earshot.
“Talk to me, kid,” said the older man. “You were OK after the assault on the ship, but this was different, wasn’t it?”
After a moment, Cahr looked up and said, “Yeah. Yeah it was. Before, I dunno, we were in suits, and, well, it was just like in the sims. But this time…” He closed his eyes, but the scene stayed before him. The man in his sight picture, the look of anger and fear, mortal terror on his face, the red dot of his holo settled just above his chest.
“I…I hesitated. I had the shot, and I couldn’t take it. Sergeant Major, that was a man in front of me. Not a sim, or a spacesuit. I… that was when Specialist Orr got hit, I think.”
“Not by the man you targeted. That had nothing to do with you. So what did you do next?” asked Knight, his tone neutral.
“Well,” said Cahr after a long moment, “he was hit by someone else. I saw, I saw his head explode, so I…I shifted fire and engaged my next target.”
“Which is what you should have done,” answered Knight.
“But I shot him in the back!” exclaimed Cahr.
Knight sighed, and said, “Jim, do you think this is a game? Some kind of live action training exercise?”
“No, of course not! That’s what I’m trying to say!” cried the Private.
“Good,” answered Knight. “Because if those Five Batt men had had a chance to get the drop on us, they would have killed you, me and anyone else that got in your way.”
“But how does that make us any different than them?” asked Cahr.
“Does it? I like to think we’re the good guys more often than we’re the bad guys.”
Knight shifted to look Cahr right in the eye. “Listen, kid. This isn’t for everyone. Jamesport is your home; if you want to get off the ship, we understand.”
The younger man looked at the rest of Team Poison, back to where Shupe was checking Yee for broken ribs. “Are we really the good guys?” he asked Knight.
“Like I said, most of the time. More often than not.”
“And what about…what about today? I screwed up,” was the miserable answer.
“Nobody died because of it,” answered his boss. “Not like the times I screwed up.”
A surprised look crossed Cahr’s face. “You?”
“Yeah. I was a squad leader, back on
Osiris, twenty-three, no, twenty-four years ago. I screwed up the coordinates of an airstrike. I hadn’t slept in three days, was running on stims, and I flipped a grid.”
“So what happened?” asked Cahr.
Knight lifted his shirt to show a massive surgical scar across his abdomen. “I spent three months in Victoria orbital, recuperating.”
“What about your squad?”
A far off look appeared on his face, and after a moment he continued. “Most of them made it out OK. Some light wounds. We were dug in, and Mark III always was a shitty piece of ordnance. Gina Bartoli, well, they did a DNA scan, so I’m pretty sure she’s out there, mixed in with the mud.”
“But, I dunno, anyone can make mistakes when you’re tired,” said Cahr.
“And anyone can be human, too, Jim. It means you’re not completely dead inside if you can see your enemy as a person. It does make us the good guys. Mostly.”
Knight got up and left Cahr to his thoughts, and his nightmares. He made his way into the cockpit and sat down in the copilot’s seat. “Need a break?” he asked Zlatcov.
“No, we’re on auto pilot. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
They were approaching Lexington, and her dark hull, usually black against space, was lit by a dozen welding torches. They sparked and flared, and light shone out of the open hangar, reflecting on stray particles of atmosphere.
“Yes, she is,” answered Knight. He said nothing more as it grew to fill the windscreen.
After a moment, Zlatcov whispered, “I’m sorry, Jenny, but I’ve got to fly.”
“I think she would understand, Nadija,” said Knight, but not really in answer to her.
Chapter 32
“I see you’ve been scalp hunting.”
Nate Meric sat in front Admiral Smythe-Jordan’s desk, in a relaxed position. This was going to be a poker game for high stakes, and he was counting on the historic rivalry between MI7 and the BNI, Britannic Naval Intelligence service. If the two agencies were playing any better than normal, he might be up a creek. His ship existed only by their permission; at a word from the Admiral, it could be seized or blown out of the sky.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Smitty,” he answered.
Above the desk appeared a holo, showing the three dead Legionaries. Meric’s face remained impassive, merely glancing at it and looking up again.
“And what’s that supposed to be? Gang fight or something?”
“Nate, don’t play stupid with me. Your shuttle disappeared off radar, then reappeared fifteen minutes later, headed for your ship like a bloody bat out of hell.” The holo switched to a course track. “Thankfully Leftenant Zlatcov is a smart enough pilot that we can’t actually pin your people to the scene of the crime.”
“Was it a crime? I heard that whomever did this took out some kind of Frog death squad. I’d think you might owe that person a huge favor.” Meric sat back and cracked his knuckles, something he knew annoyed the old man.
Smythe-Jordan hated his assignment to BNI. He would much rather have been walking the command bridge of a fleet flagship, watching anti-matter drives flare and plasma beams burn through shields. Not dealing with jumped up salvage haulers who smart-talked back to him.
“There’s also the matter of the destruction of the RFF Roi de la Lumière. Nicely done, but there is a convention against kinetic bombardment from outsystem,” growled the Admiral. It was something that he would have liked to pull himself, but the rules of war were the rules of war.
Meric smirked, knowing how much it needled the stiff Englishman. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but regardless, I’m a dirty common American; we don’t fight by the rules.”
Smythe glared at him; the treatment of the people of Old Earth was a bitter subject among the various Britannic worlds. Some argued for outright annexation on humanitarian grounds; others were happy to let them rot, blaming the Collapse on the old United States.
“Regardless, we need your ship. Twelfth Fleet destroyer escorts have taken a beating, and we’re pressing your ship to fill in an escort role,” said the Admiral.
“What the hell does that have to do with BNI?” asked Meric, a bit stunned.
“Nothing,” smiled Smythe-Jordan, enjoying the look on the younger man’s face. “We just figured that, if you were called into the Twelfth Fleet HQ, you and your ship would run like a scared rabbit, and we know how bloody hard it is to find you.”
“You can’t do this, I’ve got connections in New London, and a Letter of Marque!” Meric protested.
“New London is on the other side of the Rift. We’re right here. Is this going to be a problem?” The Admiral made an exaggerated motion toward his computer keyboard, implying a threat.
The American sighed and asked, “For how long?”
“I knew you’d see it our way. Just for a raid on LaMout. No more than six months.”
“Two months,” was his counter offer. The Admiralty had done this before, and would do it again. It actually wasn’t a bad way to make some extra money, and it helped with his crew’s cover stories. Still, he couldn’t just give in without negotiating.
“Seven. I can do this all day, Captain Meric.” The old man smiled, showing yellowed teeth.
Meric sat back, seemingly defeated. “Can I at least get a full workup in the yards?”
Smyth smiled, and said, “Nothing but the best for our American friends.”
“Who will be the destroyer squadron commander?”
“Commodore Lord Pennington,” and even the Admiral almost winced when he said it.
“Bad Penny? I see why you’ve lost so many destroyers!” said Meric. He didn’t wait to be dismissed, just stood and walked out.
****
As he took the slideways to the docks, he thought hard about his next options. To be honest, he thought a few months cruising with the Navy might be just the thing the crew needed. Instill some discipline, let the new guys get a workout before tackling some more prizes.
On the other hand, it could easily get them killed. Being under Pennington’s command was pretty much a good way to get your ship holed. His idea of tactics was to absorb more fire than the enemy, to see who would quit first. Fine when you command a battleship, death on a destroyer or light cruiser.
Still, even he wasn’t stupid enough to disregard the Lexington’s capabilities. First things first, though, he had to recruit more crew. Specifically, go see Agostine and his merry band, and break the bad news to Brit O’Neill.
The mercenary’s office was in a building that held, well, mercenaries’ offices. They ranged in size from small teams of light infantry, like Agostine’s Irregular Scouts, to a full up-armored regiment like the Hammers. The big outfits took hire directly from planetary governments, but the little guys made do where they could.
He raised his hand to ring the doorbell in room 36B after taking the lift up, but it was snatched open before he could. Rough hands grabbed him and slammed him to the floor, and he felt the cold steel of a blade pressed to his neck.
“Don’t move, or I will slice your head off, and feed you to Tibalt. He is hungry.”
“Ziv,” whispered Meric, “Would you please put that away?”
A face appeared in his vision, someone having crouched down until their face was almost touching the carpet. Oval beauty, single ice blue eye looking at him, patch over the other, fiery red hair spilling onto the carpet.
“Oh, hi, Captain! Let him up.”
He was lifted bodily off the floor and set on his feet, and the giant Jones said, “Sorry about that.”
“No problem. What’s all the fuss?”
Brit O’Neill folded her arms across her chest, and said, “We pulled a corporate job, and they screwed us out of pay, so Nick and Ahmed are out, um, seizing assets in reparations.”
“Well, I’m mainly here to see you, Brit,” said Meric, unsure of how to proceed.
Her face softened, and she said, “I know already, Nate. Nadija came by e
arlier to apologize.”
Dammit, that was his job, as Captain. He knew she was still beating herself up, but he was actually relieved not to have to break the news to O’Neill that her sister was dead.
“Are you OK? I know you and Jenny were close, especially after Sandy died.”
For a brief instant, pain and overwhelming grief shone out of that one incredibly ice blue eye, and then was buried deeply again. “I’m fine. Why else are you here?”
“How would you like a job that takes you off planet for a bit?”
Chapter 33
They were a tight team, Meric had to admit to himself. He sat in the corporate reception area and drank some coffee while they waited for their boss to return. No one asked any questions about his offer; that was for leadership to decide.
O’Neill sat a computer terminal, researching something, and Jones could be heard lifting weights in another room, with Zivcovic spotting and egging him on. Across the room, that damned walking frigging werewolf just lay and eyed him like a piece of meat.
“Tibalt, stop, you’re being rude,” commented the redhead without looking. The Andalorian grinned and barked a few words, which came out of the speaker on his neck as, “Not eat, just messing with you.” It (he?) lifted his massive bulk and disappeared into another room.
“Don’t mind Tibalt, he’s actually really nice, like a big pussycat. Just a weird sense of humor.”
“When did you add him to the team?” asked Meric. He hadn’t dealt with them in over a year. “I hope you have a suit for him.”
“Six months ago. Red got his legs blown off, and we needed to replace his tracking skills.”
“Damn, how is Angelo?” Redshirt was from Earth, like him, but from the Navajo tribal lands in the southwest.
“He cashed in his stock in the company and moved back Earthside. Said he’d pushed his luck one too many times.”
“And Doc Hamilton?”
O’Neill smiled, and said, “Doing his do-gooder shit, running his clinic for the greedy masses. He’ll be here if we need him.”