by PP Corcoran
Now, watching Hak and Lapole work in perfect harmony, Alastair could only thank God for his own fortune at having Lapole on his team.
Another couple of hours and loading would be complete and then…And then what? A frown creased Alastair’s forehead as he wondered what his next move would be.
When he had briefed his officers and senior NCOs two days ago in the comfortable surroundings of the main headquarters, he had been certain something big was about to happen. However, when Lieutenant Rivero, Gamma Support Platoon’s OC, had asked, “…but, Colonel, where is this threat coming from? We’re busy preparing to evacuate the base, yet, every other merc company on this planet is carrying on business as usual. What do we know that they don’t?”
Rivero hadn’t meant the question to be impertinent, nevertheless, it had riled Alastair.
Looking back, Rivero’s words had touched a chord for a simple reason. Alistair had had no answer for the young lieutenant.
The urgent beeping and vibrating of the small slate in the utility pouch attached to his waist came as a pleasant distraction from his morose thoughts.
“Go for Sinclair,” he said as he answered the call.
The level voice of the senior duty communications tech failed to hide her underlying concern. “Sir, you need to get over here!”
Alastair was moving before he even terminated the call, his feet pounding the floor as he broke into a sprint. Troopers scattered to the left and right as they scrambled out of his path.
Situated in the secure area lay the Communications Room, buried twenty-five feet below the Headquarters Building and around a mile from the landing pad where Alastair had been observing the loading of the Salamanca.
The hybrid vehicle he had ridden from the landing pad used a circuitous hardened track, so Alastair had chosen to ignore the indirect route and had run directly across the undulating sand dunes shielding the Scorpions’ buildings from the back blast of ships.
Alastair may have been approaching fifty, but he had been subjected to a physical training regimen from his early teens. First by his father, then by a particularly evil, retired drill instructor by the name of Juro Fujii. Fujii had made it his mission in life to push the young Alastair to the brink of death, or so it seemed. Alastair had endured hours of endless physical training, weapons training, tactical studies, CASPer maintenance, and mock scenarios. So many hours of schooling that, by the time Alastair joined the Scorpions as a fresh-faced First Lieutenant, he felt like he had been a member of the mercenary company for a lifetime.
However, Alastair had quickly discovered that whatever Fujii had put him through, his training had provided only a small taste of the reality of being a mercenary for hire.
Nothing could prepare you for your first shock of battle or for the loss of the first trooper under your command. The discipline his father and Fujii had drilled into him had served him well and, in hindsight, those hours of blood, sweat and tears were well worth it. So much so, he had found a Fujii of his own when it came time for his own children to begin learning the ropes.
It had been tough watching first Charlie, then Jamie, come home day after day battered and bruised, only to then plug themselves into the Ethernet to study whatever subject their tutor had set for them that evening. By the time it came to Nikki, his youngest child and only daughter, he had relented and discontinued the harsh training regime for the little girl that was the apple of his eye. Every time Alastair looked at her, he saw Alana—his wife, partner, and second in command. Taken from him too soon by some unknown Tortantula and its Flatar rider while conducting a contract on some crappy planet in the middle of nowhere that nobody had cared about. Alana’s loss had ripped a hole in Alastair’s world that he had never quite filled, and seeing Nikki, who could very well have been a clone of his dead Alana, growing up, he just could not bring himself to put her in a position where he might lose her, too. That had probably been the biggest mistake of his life, for Nikki had grown up watching what her older brothers had been put through, and, rather than having been put off by it, she relished the opportunity to impress her father, and when that opportunity was taken away, the first seeds of resentment had been sown. Was she not good enough? Had she annoyed her father in some way? With the stubbornness that had been such a strong trait of her mother, Nikki had decided to train herself. She surreptitiously sought out the men and women who formed the small Scorpions’ training cadre and demanded they help her. When that didn’t work, she reverted to bribery and coercion. Not that a fourteen-year-old girl had much to bribe a trooper who earned the equivalent of a small fortune every year. It never occurred to her that from her very first approach, the troopers had reported it to her father who, seeing how important it must be to Nikki, had agreed to allow a limited amount of training. Nothing too dangerous, just enough to let her think she was getting the same training as her siblings had. Unfortunately, Nikki turned out to be a natural, and gradually Alastair had allowed the members of the training cadre to increase the difficulty level. By the time Nikki was a couple of weeks shy of her seventeenth birthday, the trainers were forced to admit they had nothing more to teach the girl. On the day of Nikki’s birthday, Alastair presented her with a burnished blue 1911A1 .45ACP, one of a matching pair that Alastair’s forefather had carried into action during World War Two. Nikki accepted the pistol with trembling hands, the two-and-a-half pound pistol looked massive in her delicate hands. However, the trembling was not brought on by anticipation of the present, it was by what she had to say to her father, words that echoed in Alastair’s memory.
“I’ve decided to apply for the Peacemakers,” Nikki stated all the while holding her father’s eye unblinkingly.
Not since his wife’s passing had Alastair felt the same icy cold ball form in his stomach. And his reaction to his daughter’s blunt statement was the same as it had been then. Disbelief, followed by denial.
“If you think that is for the best.” Those eight simple words had driven a gulf between father and daughter so wide that they had not spoken in five years. Tim Buchanan’s chance meeting with her on Karma was the first solid lead he had had on her whereabouts for nearly two years, and by the sound of it, Nikki was still the hell-raiser she had always been.
Alastair gave a wry grin despite himself as his feet carried him over the final sand dune on his race toward the solid, reinforced door on the west side of the Headquarters Building. Barely pausing to allow the computer to scan his retinal code and confirm Alastair was who he claimed, he pushed open the door and took the downward spiraling steps three at a time. Entering the subdued main communications room, Alastair was confronted by the stoic faces of Tim and Jamie. As was his place as senior officer, Jamie quickly brought Alastair up to speed.
“Nine minutes ago, we began receiving reports of multiple, unannounced arrivals in the emergence area. When hailed by the near-Earth Traffic Controller, the ships, now confirmed as sixty-four mixed warships and heavy transports, ignored them. They quickly oriented themselves and lit their fusion torches.” Jamie gave a curt nod to one of the communications techs who activated the Tri-V. A wire-framed globe with the continents drawn on it flickered into existence. Alastair’s tactical eye rapidly assessed the various ships’ projected trajectories.
“Holy shit! This is nothing short of an invasion!” Alastair said in hushed tones.
Tim and Jamie nodded in silent agreement.
The computer caught up with Alastair’s assessment as in the hovering display, thin, red lines spread from each ship to intersect at various points in Earth’s orbit. It was Tim’s turn to let out a half-heard profanity as he identified the locus of the ships’ destinations.
“Uzbekistan and Texas—” Tim’s finger stabbed at the display. “They’re targeting the remaining Four Horsemen troops on Earth.”
“And there is no guarantee that they, whoever they are, are going to stop there, and I’m not willing to bet my troopers’ lives on it.” Alastair placed a hand on the shoulder of the com
munications tech. “Get me the Salamanca.” Seconds later the face of Kate Preissman was staring sullenly back at him. Shipboard routine dictated that the Traffic Control frequencies be continually monitored, so Kate was already aware of the arrival of a large number of unidentified warships, and, if any more proof was needed that Alastair’s gut feeling had been right, those millions of tons of armor, cannon, and missiles was it.
“Aunt Kate, we need to lift now!” said Alastair.
“Way ahead of you, Alastair. I’m buttoning up as we speak, by the time you get your ass back here, I’ll be ready to lift.”
If Alastair’d had the time, he would’ve said a small prayer thanking God for his aunt’s ability to make quick decisions.
Damn! She would’ve made a great merc!
Instead, Alastair cut the link and spun to face the expectant faces of Jamie and Tim. Alastair began firing orders faster than rounds from a MAC.
“Jamie. Get all our Category One people aboard the Salamanca, strapped in and ready to lift ASAP.” Jamie did not bother acknowledging his father’s order, he simply turned and ran out the door while activating his pinplants for immediate access to the Scorpions’ secure communications link. As he raced up the stairs leading to the surface, he sent a priority message to all the Category One personnel, or as they were normally referred to, the ‘War Fighters.’
Flash message. Board now and prepare for immediate departure.
Across the base, the members of Gamma and Zulu Companies simply stopped whatever they were doing and rushed to comply with Jamie’s order. Aboard the Salamanca, crewmen dodged to one side as 150 grim-faced troopers made their way to the hastily-adapted, cramped cargo holds and strapped themselves in while platoon sergeants counted them off as they arrived.
In the Communications Room, Alastair was not finished giving orders. “Tim. Category Two. I want support personnel cleared from the landing pad ASAP and en route to their assembly points. No sense in them being anywhere near a big fat target like the Salamanca if our friends decide to come calling. Once you’ve got them moving, I want you to get yourself aboard.” Alastair spared a glance at the illuminated figures of the digital time piece on the wall. “You have ten minutes.”
Tim gave his boss a curt nod as he too headed for the door. The sound of his voice issuing the necessary instructions over his comms grew more distant as he made his way up the stairs.
Alastair had already switched to his next order of business. Being a mercenary was seen by many to be either a glamorous life full of action and adventure which resulted in a never-ending supply of rich pay packets or, as some would have you believe, a solitary life full of nothing but death and destruction while your Yack overflowed with blood money. Whatever your views on the mercenary life, there was something which an outsider tended to forget: the men and women who filled the ranks were Human, and Humans were, overall, not creatures of solitude. They had families. And the men and women of the Scorpions were no different. Over to the east of the sprawling base were the neat rows of two story homes that housed the husbands, wives, and children of the married personnel, and ensuring their safety was as much a priority for Alastair as that of his troopers. Activating his own pinplants, Alastair was connected to the one person on the base who the awesome responsibility for keeping the families safe fell to.
“Go for Lapole,” answered an expectant voice.
Alastair knew his Supply Officer had been awaiting his call. She couldn’t have failed to notice that her orderly loading of the Salamanca had come to a grinding halt. Many troopers abandoned their assigned tasks to make their way aboard the ship while others shepherded civilian support staff toward their assembly points, ready to exit the base.
Lapole had never been one for small talk, so Alastair got straight to the point. “I’ve ordered a full evacuation, Cristin.”
“Understood, sir. How many family members are still on base?” Yeah, straight to the point, thought Alastair, turning his head in the direction of Sergeant Quant, the senior comms tech. Quant had anticipated Alastair and a command via her pinplants sent the necessary information to Lapole’s slate.
Alastair heard a grunt over his link as Lapole received and digested the information before speaking. “OK, I’ve got that. Forty-two currently on base. I’ll round up the waifs and strays. I presume the plan is still to head for the Lodge?”
The aptly named Lodge lay on an isolated and peaceful stretch along the edge of Loch Ness. Normally accessed by air, the large hunting lodge complex hid the trappings of modern life and provided the perfect place for overworked Scorpions troopers and their families to relax. The Lodge could easily cope with the forty-two family members.
“The medium assault flyer we use for practice drops can handle forty-two. It might be cramped, but it means I can lift them in one sortie rather than shuttling back and forth in one of the smaller flyers,” said Lapole.
“Yeah, I think that is for the best until we can figure out the intentions of those ships. Good luck, Cristin, and I’ll see you on the flip side.”
Terminating the link, Alastair noted the communications techs concentrating on the flow of information while resisting the temptation to follow Jamie and Tim out the door and take their allocated seats on board the soon-to-be-leaving ship.
“Ewen,” Alastair addressed the junior tech. “Slave your links to the Salamanca and get going.”
A flurry of fingers and commands via his pinplants ensured the Salamanca’s Communications Section received a mirror image of the sophisticated set up of the Scorpions’ control room. Disconnecting the two hair-thin cables from behind each of his ears, which joined his pinplants to the base’s main computer, Ewen stood ready to leave, but hesitated as his eyes met those of the senior tech.
Sergeant Katrian Quant held her subordinate’s eyes for a fleeting moment before giving him a weak smile and jerking her head in the direction of the door. Ewen gave her a thin smile of his own before obeying Alastair’s command.
Their exchange had not escaped Alastair, but he had the good grace to wait until the junior tech left before saying, “Katrian—”
“No need, sir,” she said with a shrug and a resigned tone. “Even if I don’t want to admit it. It makes sense. Someone must stay until you get clear, in case there’s a problem with the link to the Salamanca, and you need up-to-the-minute data if you’re to make good your escape. It’s just bad luck that I’m right here, right now.”
The terminal in front of her gave a shrill beep. Quant’s eyes narrowed as she scanned her Tri-V. “Well, that’s not good,” she said in a low voice.
Alastair leaned over the back of her swivel chair, to see the Tri-V for himself and his eyes narrowed. In the display, three huge troopships were descending on an area in central Uzbekistan “Looks like the Golden Horde are about to have some unwelcome visitors.”
“Should we warn them?” asked Quant.
“I’m pretty sure they know they’re coming but give them a heads-up anyway.”
Quant sent the necessary commands via her pinplants composing a message which included a complete projection of the troopships’ flight paths and projected landing sites.
“Sir, they replied that they are aware, and they are warning all mercenary companies to leave Earth and join up with a convoy in space.”
“Did they say to where?”
“No; just that more info will be provided enroute. They were worried about the signal being intercepted.”
Alastair stood behind her, watching the icons representing decelerating troopships falling to Earth. It was still hard to believe, but the descending ships and their fleet mates moving into blocking positions in orbit were proof enough. This is what the all the hidden messages and contracts had been about. Invasion! Alastair accessed the communications terminal, bringing up a previously stored message. One he had composed weeks previously before his eldest son, Charlie, had left for Galax.
The text of the message was innocuous, and Alastair and Charlie hope
d anyone intercepting it would take it as a pleasantry between father and son. It read, Happy Birthday, Son. Love, Dad, but it was a signal to Charlie. The message translated as The Scorpions have abandoned their base. Prepare for the worst.
Alastair could do nothing for his firstborn or his troopers, and his inadequacies weighed heavy on his shoulders, but what more could he do? Right now, he had his own problems and responsibilities.
A command sent the message flashing through the ether to join the stack of outgoing traffic held in the local GalNet node, awaiting download to the next ship to use the stargate headed in the direction of the Coro region in the Tolo arm of the galaxy. Then, the message would hitch a ride to the furthest GalNet node which, finally, routed the text to the first ship headed to Galax. It could be weeks before the message arrived, but Alastair hoped Charlie would receive the warning in time.
“Sir,” said Quant, interrupting Alastair’s thoughts. “Traffic Control is filling with reports of sporadic ship-to-ship engagements. Looks like someone is up for a fight.”
Alastair leaned in close to the Tri-V as if by staring at the icons in the display he could divine the warring factions. What he saw, though, was a carbon copy of the Traffic Control readout. The Tri-V filled with ghost images and flashes of static as the dueling warships permeated the electronic spectrum with powerful countermeasures against targeting systems, burning through their foes’ countermeasures with their own weapons. Who was winning or losing was impossible to tell, but the battle did provide an opportunity for the Salamanca to make good its escape while both sides were busy taking swings at each other.
“The minute we’re clear and out of range, wipe everything, then hightail it to join Captain Lapole, understood?”