by Eric Thomson
DECKER’S WAR OMNIBUS #1
Includes the first three Decker’s War adventures
Death Comes But Once (Decker’s War Book 1)
Cold Comfort (Decker’s War Book 2)
Fatal Blade (Decker’s War Book 3)
Eric Thomson
DEATH COMES BUT ONCE (BOOK 1)
Death Comes But Once
Copyright 2014 Eric Thomson
Omnibus edition 2017
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published in Canada
By Sanddiver Books
ISBN: 978-0-9948200-2-0
Prologue
Plasma rounds cracked over Command Sergeant Zack Decker’s head in a steady stream. Pinned down by the enemy behind a jumble of granite rocks, he still waited for Captain Sarratt to do something that might relieve the pressure, such as calling back the assault shuttles to provide air support.
Little remained of Decker’s patience, a virtue in short supply at the best of times. None of his Marines had become casualties so far, but the operation was turning into the expected clusterfuck.
Decker’s first public argument with the captain occurred in the middle of the mission briefing aboard ship, and things had gone downhill from that point. Sarratt wasn’t the 902nd Pathfinder Squadron’s regular commanding officer, and his inexperience was all too clear in the way he planned the mission.
There was nothing easy about taking a marauder group’s hideout, and Sarratt’s plan made it even more complicated than it had to be. If it hadn’t been for their orders to collect intelligence, they could just as well have destroyed the outlaws from orbit with a kinetic strike. There weren’t any civilians around who could become collateral damage. The closest town on this shit hole planet was a few thousand kilometers away.
The squadron’s executive officer tried to dissuade Sarratt from carrying out his plan, suggesting a workable, if less spectacular alternative, but to no avail.
They should have jumped in guns blazing, covered by the Gatlings and rockets of their assault shuttles. Instead, their acting CO wanted to sneak up on the enemy, gain the element of surprise, and then run through them like plasma through plastic. Decker would have gone straight to the last part and replaced surprise by massive firepower.
After one look at his designated drop zone on the scans taken by the frigate from high orbit, Decker had decided to disobey his orders. Of all the possible DZs around the hideout, this one was not only the closest but also the most obvious. The marauders weren’t blind and stupid enough not to figure out it was a great place to drop Marines coming after them. Decker knew whatever else they were, the outlaws were smart enough to survive years of being hunted by the Fleet.
Sarratt’s complicated plan hinged on having Zack’s troop land there before advancing on the target. His troop’s job was to pin them down, while the captain brought the rest of the squadron around for the killing blow. He had resisted all attempts to change Third Troop’s DZ.
Instead, Zack had a quiet chat with the assault shuttle pilot and landed his Marines in a less visible but far safer spot a few kilometers away. By the time Sarratt found out, Decker was already halfway to the original DZ, but on foot.
The captain had threatened Decker with disciplinary measures for his disobedience, but he had ignored him. Provided their communications were over a private channel, no one else would be privy to the exchange and Sarratt would calm down once they concluded the operation with success.
Zack had wanted to send a small patrol to scout the marauder base from the ground and warn of any ambush along the way. Sarratt would hear nothing of it, ordering him to press along at speed, to make up for the time wasted by landing further away.
The original DZ had turned out to be a well-prepared ambush site. If Decker and his troopers had landed there, the enemy would have wiped them out almost at once.
*
“Three this is Niner,” the radio crackled to life. “Why the hell aren’t you moving?”
“Because we’re fucking pinned down,” Decker replied, furious. “How fucking often must I repeat myself? We’re not moving until someone can take the pressure off one of my flanks. They have us covered from all sides.”
“Three, this is Niner,” Sarratt replied, voice trembling with rage, “mind yourself when you speak with me. As I’ve told you more than once, I can’t spare anyone to help you correct your mistakes. Thanks to you, I now to take the target with one less troop than the plan called for.”
“Niner this is Three,” Decker’s tone dripped with sarcasm, “perhaps my holding down a fair chunk of the enemy’s firepower might make it easier for you to carry through your abortion of a plan. In the meantime, we’ll try not to die. Three, out.”
Decker knew he would pay for his intemperate words later. However, risking the lives of his Marines because an idiot of a captain wanted some combat time before the next majors’ promotion board wasn’t on the menu.
A stupid training accident had sent the squadron’s real CO to the hospital, and Sarratt had used his connections to get the temporary command. Though Pathfinder qualified, he had spent most of his career in a rifle battalion. Commanding a ‘leg’ company wasn’t anywhere enough experience, and he was too arrogant to listen to his troop leaders, all of them experienced Pathfinder noncoms.
Decker cursed his regimental commander for dumping Sarratt on them, but the colonel had no reason to expect orders sending them into battle on the fringes of the Shield Cluster. No matter what favors someone owed Sarratt, people needed to be slapped upside the head for this.
A rocket-propelled grenade smashed into the ground in front of him showering the Pathfinders with shrapnel and debris. So far the enemy hadn’t brought up enough firepower to turn this into Decker’s last stand. But now that they were shooting RPGs, it could only mean they were breaking out the heavier stuff. If they had mortars, they could make it very uncomfortable for the Pathfinders.
Just as that thought crossed Decker’s mind, he heard the dull thud of a mortar round leaving its tube.
“Shit,” Decker swore, then shouted, “Incoming!”
The mortar round landed a few dozen meters to Decker’s right, throwing up a shower of earth and wood splinters. It was a small caliber shell, but a direct hit on one of his Marines would be fatal in a very messy way.
Decker debated informing Sarratt that the enemy was using artillery, but discarded the idea. If the captain wasn’t smart enough to notice the heavier ordnance, there was no point.
Without the assault boats flying cover, there was no one to relay news of progress by the main body. For all Zack knew, the enemy could have pinned them down as well. With the squadron’s executive officer aboard one of the shuttles, there was no tactical command post on the ground to coordinate the attack.
Another mortar round exploded, this one nearer.
“Niner, this is Three,” Decker gritted his teeth as he called Sarratt, this time on the squadron push. “We’re coming under effective mortar fire. If we don’t get relief soon, you’ll be able to scrape us off the ground with a shovel. Even one pass by an assault shuttle would help.”
When Sarratt replied, Decker knew things weren’t going well on his end either. He sounded out of breath, anxious and there was heavy gunfire in the background.
“I’ve called the shuttles back, Decker. Just hold on. Once they’ve made a pass at the enemy positions in front of me, I’ll have them support you.”
“Suggest you have th
em take down the enemy mortar team first.” He ducked as a shell came down in the center of his troop’s position, throwing a geyser of earth and stones into the air. “They have our range.”
Before Sarratt could reply, the voice of the lead shuttle pilot came on the push.
“I have eyes on the mortar position and will engage as a priority target.”
“You will engage the objectives as I laid out,” the captain shouted.
Neither the pilot nor Decker replied. Mere seconds later, he heard the sound of tearing cloth as the lead gunboat’s Gatling cut loose, followed by the next and the one after that. A larger explosion, followed by a mushroom cloud of dust, erupted from the jungle as the plasma cooked off the mortar’s ready rounds.
“Any chance you can do a pass in front of my position?” Decker asked. “If I can escape from this trap, I can relieve the pressure on the others.”
“Affirmative. Paint your perimeter and we’ll fry anything beyond it.”
Decker quickly passed the order to his troopers.
“I have you,” the lead pilot said moments later. “Hug the ground. We’re coming in.”
Ignoring Sarratt, the four assault shuttles turned the forest beyond Decker’s position into a nightmare of fire and death. This was how they should have come down on the marauders in the first place, instead of pissing about trying to surprise them.
The moment the shuttles broke away to engage the targets to Sarratt’s front, Decker stood up and motioned his squad leaders to move out towards the target. There was no point in dawdling. The only play left was to hit hard and hit fast.
They rushed through the smoking ruins of the jungle, their way cleared by the air strikes and when they neared the base, all sounds of fighting had stopped. The only noise came from the burning vegetation, and stray ammunition cooking off at random in the fires.
Urged on by Sarratt, Decker didn’t pause to figure out why the marauders had given up the fight. It was as if they had dematerialized, leaving nothing but ruins.
As the perimeter of the installation came into view, he realized that the enemy had played them for suckers. Before he could warn the others, the fake base erupted in one giant blast. Decker’s last thought before his world went dark was how he’d strangle his CO the moment they were back on the ship.
One
“What should I do with him?”
The Dragon’s Tooth’s plump, gray-haired waitress nodded towards the far corner, grimacing at the proprietor, a paunchy ex-Marine with tattoos on his arms.
They, and the customer snoring with gusto, his head on his folded arms, were the last living beings left in the bar. It was a little after three in the morning. Late. Only the whorehouses in the spaceport precinct stayed open later. Most never closed.
Tren, the innkeeper, shrugged. “Leave him be for now, Mara. By the time we finish down here, he’ll wake and wander out on his own. Poor fucker has enough problems without getting tossed out of a joint like this.”
“Your place Tren. But don’t take on no pity cases now,” Mara replied, shaking her head. “I know you too well.” She pointed a red-tipped fingernail at him. “Can’t resist an old Marine in trouble, can you? Give him a free beer and a free meal, sure, but don’t take him home with you like he’s a stray cub. Hell, the sad sack’s large enough to frighten the living shit out of the cub’s mother.”
“You know, Mara, you sound just like we’re married.” Tren snorted in mock disgust as he wiped a stain off the scarred counter.
“Near enough, Tren. Near enough.” Mara hoisted another battered chair on an equally battered table, grunting at the effort.
“You wanna fuck Mara before going to sleep every night, you have to listen to her speak.” She leered at him. “Anyway, on some planets, the law would say we are married.”
“Which is why I retired here, you foul-mouthed old hen. I don’t aim to repeat my mistakes, and I’ve been through that sort of hell once already. What a mistake to make.” Tren spat into the imitation brass spittoon, making it ring like a bell at the impact.
“Who the hell is that drunk, anyway?”
“Old Marine, Mara.”
“I know, you old fool. He even looks like you – ugly puss, drools when he tries to speak like a human, and drunk from sunrise to sunset.”
“Fuck you, Mara.”
“Later.” She wiggled her fat bottom at Tren, chortling. “Hey, your old buddy seems better looking than you. Maybe I should trade? Maybe he’s better than you in the equipment department too.”
“You wouldn’t want Zack, trust me.” Tren suddenly turned dead serious, and that brought Mara to a halt. She looked at him and frowned as if trying to read the answer on the ex-Marine’s broad, prize fighter’s face.
“Apart from being drunk, which seems to be normal for everything that wears a uniform, what’s the boy done?”
“Dunno. Zack doesn’t want to talk about it. But that’s not what I meant.”
“You want to tell me, or is this one of those off-limits things?” Mara knew by now not to press Tren when he didn’t want to speak. Though he never laid a hand on her like her first husband had, he was scary as hell when he was pissed off.
Tren shrugged. “Zack’s a mean fighter. Lived for the Corps, didn’t have time for nothing else. He has a kid somewhere he’s never seen. Wife fucked off when Zack refused to leave the Fleet for a civvie job. Hurt him bad too. Never wanted to get close to another woman since then. Became a super trooper: Pathfinders, special ops, every fucking war the Corps fought in the last twenty years. There are people think the man isn’t quite human anymore.”
He shook his head, eyes far away, in that place where Mara never went.
“Now Zack’s on early retirement, which can only mean they’ve kicked him out. And that’ll kill him for sure. Zack Decker was one hell of a Marine, but he’ll never make a civilian. Either drink himself to death, pull out a gun and blow a hole in his head. Or else, bust up someone or some place and get gunned down by the Militia in a blaze of glory.”
“That’s why you’re kinda soft on him?” Mara asked in a gentle tone.
“Yeah. I figure old Zack don’t have too much time left in this universe unless a miracle happens and he finds a job that’ll keep him alive.”
“Like what kind of job?”
Tren tossed his soaked, grimy rag into the stainless steel sink beneath the counter and rubbed his chin with a calloused hand.
“Well, Colonial Army’s out. Don’t hire no noncoms forced to retire. Too many of ‘em are bad news a court-martial couldn’t convict. Merc outfits aren’t so choosy, but there’s none in the area. It’s too quiet on Aramis.” Mara nodded. Tren had already given it thought. “Rent-a-cop? But that’ll drive Zack nuts so fast he won’t have time to collect his first pay. Hire on a fast trader? Some of ‘em need good gunners where they go for business. But none are hiring these days either. Anyway, a lot of ‘em are half-pirate, and that’s no place to send a man who spent twenty years fighting the scum.”
Mara patted Tren’s still muscular forearm.
“You really seem to care about this guy.”
“Yeah, I do. Zack Decker saved my life a long time ago. We were both buck sergeants in the same platoon, on Hispaniola before the war became a war. Old Zack pulled me out of a crowd of angry pesans who were looking for someone to rip apart. Zack Decker, all alone with a fucking carbine and no damn ammo. The guy has more balls than brains sometimes. But if he hadn’t stared the fuckers down, I’d be dead, so I owe Zack.”
“Listen, Angel, if he means that much to you, we can put him up for a while. No trouble.”
“Thanks, Mara.” He kissed her with a tenderness surprising in such a hard man. “Appreciate the offer. But Zack, he doesn’t live on no charity. Take free beer and food from a pal, sure. We’ve been paying each other a treat since he was a PFC with no more sense than a puppy. But Zack’s getting his pension, little as it is, and he won’t take anything. Proud bugger.” There was admir
ation in Tren’s voice as he looked at his sleeping friend. “Command Sergeant Zachary T. Decker was one hell of a Marine.”
Tren pulled a chipped shot glass out from under the counter and poured himself a measure of whiskey.
“I’ll stay a while, ‘till he wakes. You go on up, Mara, and get some sleep.”
For what seemed like a long time, Tren Kinnear stared at his friend’s resting shape, sipping contraband hooch and thinking hard. Pathfinders take care of their own, even when they weren’t Pathfinders anymore.
*
Zack Decker shuffled through the deserted streets of Heaven’s Gate, kicking at empty booze bottles, cig packs and flyers advertising cathouses with his scuffed work boots. Hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, and head pulled down into his jacket’s raised collar, the big man only superficially seemed like any other drifter in any other spaceport on any of the Commonwealth’s planets.
At one-ninety centimeters height, one hundred and ten kilos weight, all of it muscle, and with a face chiseled in granite, Decker looked like a mean drunk, a mean ex-Fleet drunk. An even meaner hangdog now that his head started pounding with the inevitable hangover, his efficient metabolism already recovering from the ethanol binge at the Dragon’s Tooth. Who knew what he’d been tossing back near the end. Could have been hyperdrive coolant for all he cared.
He had a twice-broken nose, sharp as a hawk’s beak now, sandy hair still cut in a short brush, a jagged white scar running from his left ear down into his collar and dark blue eyes, almost purple, bright and old beyond his years.
To the rats lurking in the slum’s dark alleys, his appearance, and athletic stride, honed by years of wearing heavy armor battle suits, marked him as a veteran, someone to avoid. Vets knew one hundred and one ways to kill a body with their bare hands, and few of them ever went anywhere unarmed. The cutthroats and footpads had good survival instincts. They left him alone, even though there wasn’t another soul in sight, at three-thirty in the morning, in the seediest part of Heaven’s Gate.