by PP Corcoran
As the door closed softly behind Croll, Alastair walked to the low table set against the far wall and retrieved a cut crystal decanter and two matching glasses emblazoned with the unit symbol of Sinclair’s Scorpions. The stinging scorpion contained within a thick outer ring glinted in the low light.
Placing one glass down in front of Buchanan he deftly removed the stopper from the decanter and poured the man a generous two fingers of the deep amber liquid before moving around the desk and repeating the process for himself.
Flopping into his chair, Alastair took a deep, reverent sniff of the one-hundred-year-old malt whiskey before allowing himself a gentle sip. As the warm liquid flowed down his throat and into his stomach, he eyed Buchanan over the rim of his glass. The younger man was subtly slouched in his chair, eyes closed and fully appreciative of not only the strong alcohol, but also the significance of the traditional toast at the end of a successful mission.
Buchanan’s manner also indicated that with the dismissal of Croll and the arrival of a drink that the formal debrief was over, now they were just two old friends enjoying a chat.
Neither man spoke for a few minutes, choosing instead to enjoy the peace and quiet, and, of course, the liquor. As Alastair topped off their glasses, he reluctantly brought the conversation round to work.
“So, Tim, how is Croll working out?”
“Surprisingly better than I thought, Alastair,” answered Buchanan, taking the use of his forename by his commanding officer as implied permission to reciprocate. “You know I had my reservations when you brought him over from the Strike Eagles, instead of promoting someone from within the Scorpions. He had an outstanding combat record, but he was damn young for a first sergeant position, and Mike Lennox left some pretty big boots to fill.”
Alastair automatically raised his glass in salute, taking a short swig of his drink at the mention of Lennox. The man had been with the Scorpions for nearly two decades, having joined the mercenary company straight out of school.
His untimely death on Bosnal due to something as stupid as a failed seal on his CASPer during a high-altitude drop was a crappy way for a soldier to go. Alastair shook himself from his morbidity, and Tim continued speaking.
“Well, after the events on Galax and our little encounter with your wayward daughter, I think he’ll make a fine addition. He knows,” Tim allowed a cheery smile to spread across his face, “mostly, when to make his opinion heard and when to keep his thoughts to himself.”
The mention of Nikki caused an edge of fatherly concern to enter Alastair’s voice. “And how is the youngest and fairest of my brood?”
“Still kicking ass and taking names. Nikki is her father’s daughter; I have no doubt. Being a Peacemaker strangely suits her.”
“Yeah, she always was the more adventurous of the kids, breaking all the rules like they didn’t apply to her and then, when her mother or I caught her, she would plaster that innocent smile on her face as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I gather you were able to…provide assistance on her latest quest for truth and justice?”
Tim, in the process of swallowing, coughed and spluttered as the liquid tried to come back up. Alastair let out a burst of laughter at the unintended plight of his subordinate. After a few more coughs and a wipe of his watering eyes Tim was at last able to answer.
“Assistance my ass. Nikki went and conscripted us! She had us go up against a ship full of Besquith. Although I have to say, it was fun being on the right side of the law for a change, rather than the somewhat shady area we tend to operate in.”
Alastair raised his glass in mock salute. “And long may Lady Justice remain blind to those who fight the good fight.”
“And let her gaze not fall on those who unintentionally step over the line on occasion,” rejoined Tim, raising his own glass.
They each took a sip from their respective glass and as Alastair placed his glass on his desk top, his face took on a more serious look. Alerted by his commanding officer’s action, Tim became more attentive.
“I know you have just returned, Tim, but how quickly can you have the remains of Gamma Company ready to move?”
Tim’s head cocked slightly, and, puzzled by Alastair’s question, he inadvertently paused before answering. “I’d need to go over the readiness states with the platoon leaders. First and Second Platoons are deployed with Charlie; that only leaves Third Platoon under Caroline and Support Platoon under Gonzalez.” Alastair saw the cogs whirring in Tim’s brain as he ran numbers and procedures in his head. Tim opened his mouth to recite the recall procedure, and the time each phase of a recall would take, but Alastair cut him off.
“All personnel are confined to base. Not just Gamma Company; the entire unit,” Alastair said flatly.
Tim’s mouth snapped shut, and he leaned forward until he almost perched on his chair. In all his time with the Scorpions, Tim had never known Alastair—or his father—to confine every member of the unit to base. Yes, there had been a hurried recall of individual platoons or even—once—an entire company when an urgent, unexpected contract had come in, but never a blanket-wide recall. Something was up, and the concerned face of Alastair made that obvious. If his boss was worried, then Tim had best be worried too.
Alastair tapped a control on his smart desk, and the Tri-V flickered into life. Alastair oriented it to Tim’s point of view. “Tell me; what do you see?” asked Alastair.
Tim’s eyes quickly scanned the list: mercenary companies currently under contract and, where known, their employees and what the contract entailed. When he reached the bottom, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He spared a quick glance at Alastair before reading the list again. This time pausing to re-read the specific mercenary companies’ names and planets of origin. On most, the planet of origin was the same: Earth!
Tim sat back in his chair with a closed mouth exhale.
“You see it too?” Alastair asked in a low voice.
Tim nodded but decided to play devil’s advocate. “Could it be a coincidence?”
Alastair let out a snort of derision. “What? Alien mercs are so busy completing contracts of unspecified types, for unnamed employers, that it has left a glut of contracts that are siphoning Human mercs off-planet in ever-growing numbers?”
Tim shrugged his shoulders. “It’s possible.”
Alastair settled his eyes on his friend and subordinate. “And what if I were to tell you that we received a contract not one week ago requesting an entire company to head out to the Jesc Arm because some Wathayat was worried that his F11 refinery was being eyed up by the Transki Syndicate?”
“That leaves one fighting platoon, a Support Platoon, and whatever spare bodies happen to be hanging around, here,” concluded Tim.
The men dropped into an uneasy silence as Tim considered the implications of his boss’ interpretation of the data. For sure, there could’ve been a hundred other explanations for the sudden increase. But considering what has been happening to the Human merc companies, especially the Four Horsemen—the bankruptcy at Cartwright’s Cavaliers, higher than average attrition rates at Asbaran Solutions, and fleets lying in wait for the Winged Hussars—Tim saw why Alastair might see conspiracies around every corner.
But, he agreed with his boss. Someone was taking shots at Human mercs and with the data laid out in front of him, Tim harbored a suspicion they were reaching a tipping point.
“Have you run this past Charlie and Jimmy?” asked Tim.
A frown creased Alastair’s forehead and he answered with a trace of annoyance. “It was Jamie who recommended we begin the recall and confine the unit to base. Unfortunately, Charlie had left for Galax before I had gathered enough data to be sure my paranoia wasn’t playing tricks on me.”
Tim pointed a finger at the data hovering in the Tri-V. “Well, your paranoia must be infectious because my gut is telling me that something big is about to go down, and we are going to be slap bang in the middle of it. The question is, what the hell do we do abou
t it?”
Alastair let his eyes pass over the walls of his office. Mementos collected from the Scorpions’ contracts packed shelves that lined one wall.
Pride of place, on the wall facing his desk, a copy of the Scorpions’ Roll of Honor mirrored the real thing found on display at the entrance to the Scorpions’ base. The Roll of Honor held an inscription of every mercenary who had worn the Sinclair’s Scorpions’ uniform and paid the ultimate price.
The third wall held a large Tri-V display where Alastair could call up any information he desired from the Aethernet or its Galactic Union equivalent GalNet. However, it was a four-by-four-inch plexiglass cube sitting on Alastair’s smart desk that his eyes eventually rested on.
Contained within the clear cube lay a tattered unit patch. Scorch marks darkened its edges and dried blood speckled its surface, which bore a carefully embroidered red fox head. Below it were the words, “Campbell’s Foxes.” Alastair murmured the name of the unit their great-grandfathers had fought with. The little cube had become a tradition, kept front and center in the Sinclair’s Scorpions Commanding Officer’s office. The battered badge acted as a reminder to learn from the mistakes of the past and to never repeat the catastrophic losses suffered during the Alpha Contracts.
Steadfast on the patch, Alastair’s eyes didn’t waver as he spoke. “We prepare for the worst.”
* * * * *
Chapter Two
Aunt Kate
In the week since Tim’s return, things had gone from suspicious to downright conspiratorial. The rumor mill had been hard at work, as was to be expected when you kept a large number of mercs in close quarters with little to do but twiddle their thumbs.
However, Lieutenants Caroline Verley of Third Platoon and her Support Platoon opposite Gonzalez Rivero had been engaged in business other than idle gossip.
The platoon commanders were on the priority recall list and arrived back at the Scorpions’ base before their troops.
The unexpected sight of Jamie Sinclair’s Zulu Company and their equipment packed and ready for deployment, but still on base instead of halfway to Galax, was indicative to the young officers that something was up. Taking the initiative, the two junior officers quickly outlined and fired off a Warning Order to those troops still in transit back to the base, so they could start preparing for whatever the hell was going on. Employing the old military adage of doing something—anything—instead of doing nothing proved correct when Caroline and Gonzalez received a sparsely-worded Warning Order of their own from Colonel Sinclair.
Prepare for immediate extended operations off planet. Duration unknown. Mission parameters unknown.
Deciding to err on the side of caution, the lieutenants ordered that every piece of equipment, every power pack, and every piece of ordnance be boxed and ready for transport.
When Tim returned from Galax to assume command, both platoons were at full strength and every locker and storage compartment in Gamma Company’s lines were picked clean. Now, Tim and his officers had the unenviable task of keeping the troops busy.
Idle hands and troops equaled trouble. A prank or joke would get out of hand and fists would fly; it was a matter of mathematics.
The first day he got back, First Sergeant Croll called his senior sergeants together. Trouble was brewing all right. A bright spark in Zulu Company had lost a tidy sum at cards to a tech corporal from Gamma’s Support Platoon and rigged a dye pack inside one of the training CASPers scheduled for maintenance by said tech corporal. As planned, on opening the suit the dye pack went off, but, unfortunately for said tech, one of Captain Lapole’s civilian technicians ended up covered head to toe in the wash resistant, bright orange pigment.
Of course, Lapole went on the war path.
To her credit, the culprit came forward, and, within the half hour reaming from Lapole, she learned a few choice words, in a variety of Human and alien languages, found her monthly pay check would be considerably lighter than usual, and kept her job.
Croll moved swiftly to nip the problem in the bud and suggested to Lieutenants Verley and Rivero that extra physical training would be beneficial to the troops. The officers agreed.
Thus, at 0600 hours the following morning, twenty-four troops of Third and Support Platoons found themselves standing in formation as the early morning drizzle worked its way into every bone and joint of their bodies.
First Sergeant Croll, with his sergeants arrayed behind him, stepped forward to inspect each trooper. Tan t-shirts with the wearer’s surname and initials on the left breast, rank on the right. On the reverse, a black scorpion within a black ring and the word ‘GAMMA’ across the shoulders. Clean shaven, makeup and jewelry-free, with hair high and tight, no matter the wearer’s sex. Anyone foolish enough to infringe on Croll’s simple rules found not only themselves but their entire squad doing pushups.
Croll finished his inspection and returned to his place at the front and center of the formation, his legs spread at the exact position of parade rest and his hands resting lightly on his hips.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Gamma Company, it has come to my attention that you have excess energy.” An evil smile spread across his face. “Well, let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?”
A low groan came from the ranks. The first sergeant was known to love running and the fact he was in PT kit did not bode well. “Sergeants. Take post!” The platoon sergeants moved to the right-hand side of each platoon at Croll’s order. “Right, face!” Twenty-four pairs of feet moved in unison. “Quick, march!” Gamma Company headed for the beach.
At this early hour, the Atlantic air chilled their exposed skin, but the cool breeze fooled no one; they would be glad of its wicking properties once they had worked up a little sweat. As the two platoons passed the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, Croll’s raised voice sounded loud and clear across the rhythmic pounding of marching feet. “Break into double time…Double time!”
The troops of Zulu Company could never prove their suspicions, but Croll’s shouted command was perfectly timed to coincide with his passing of the door belonging to one Captain Jamie Sinclair’s quarters.
Be that as it may, Jamie Sinclair had always been an early riser and when he looked out of his rain-speckled window and saw the troops of Gamma Company running past, he reached for his own PT kit with one hand while placing a call to Zulu’s first sergeant with the other.
Strangely, First Sergeant Isla Stuart answered immediately. Jamie put her fast response down to the fact she was a light sleeper and had probably heard Gamma forming up before their PT session. It escaped his mind that the Senior NCO’s accommodation was on the other side of the base.
“First Sergeant, Gamma Company is taking advantage of the beautiful morning to partake in some PT, and I was thinking that it would be commensurate of us to join them.” Jamie looked at his watch, “Ten minutes? Is that long enough to wake the troops and have them ready?”
* * *
Isla wiped at the light drizzle that soaked her face as she and her four platoon sergeants stood in their already-dripping-wet PT gear outside the four platoon-sized accommodation blocks holding the unsuspecting, sleeping troops of Zulu Company. Croll had given her a heads-up the night before, and she had been expecting the early morning call. Isla had to admit she was really starting to like Croll’s way of thinking. It was…devious.
“Oh, I think that should be plenty of time, sir. See you in ten.” Cutting the link Isla turned to her four colleagues, each holding a flash bang grenade. A devious smile remarkably like that of her opposite number, Croll, spread across her face as she nodded at her smirking sergeants.
“Let’s wake our sleeping beauties, shall we?”
One by one, each accommodation block door burst open and a small, soda-can-sized grenade followed the path of a gentle arc and landed in the middle of the corridor. A blinding flash. Then nine loud bangs, each at ever-increasing decibels echoed off the walls, the cacophony merging to form an ear-piercing shriek.
> Isla made a mental note—flash bangs make a great alarm clock.
“Damn, I love my job,” Isla said, knowing the lingering aftereffects of the exploding flash bangs would disguise her words. Isla could barely hear the reactions of the troops as the platoon sergeants went from room to room screaming, “Get up! Get dressed! Form up!”
By the time Jamie jogged around the corner, Zulu Company was waiting. Jamie, and the rest of the base, couldn’t help but notice the piercing noise and lingering smoke trails escaping from the open doors of the company’s accommodation. Jamie came to a halt beside his stoic-faced first sergeant.
“It seems that I and the company may have been set up, First Sergeant,” he whispered to Isla out of the side of his mouth.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, sir,” replied Isla.
Jamie covered the short scoff that escaped his lips with a hand and feigned a cough before addressing the assembled company.
“Gamma Company took a fifteen-minute head start on us. Let’s see if we can make that up, shall we?”
* * *
The troopers of Gamma and Zulu Companies were not the only early risers that morning. Alastair Sinclair had been in his office for several hours accompanied by Tim Buchanan. Both men had already drunk copious amounts of a deeply aromatic coffee from a pot that a slow dripping percolator constantly refilled. Drinking the last dregs of his mug, Alastair considered getting himself a refill before deciding against it and returning to a comfortable slouched position in his chair.
The coffee had had the desired effect of kickstarting his body, and any more of the thick, caffeine-laced liquid was likely to have a detrimental effect on his concentration. Glancing across at Tim, he noted the man had already slowed his intake as his mug sat half-full, contents cooling, while his eyes scanned the overnight signal traffic.
Tim hadn’t fooled him. Alastair knew he was anxious, as anxious as himself. The commander of the Scorpions unconsciously tapped his fingers on his desk.