by P. R. Adams
This time, two rounds raked across her, one of them deflecting off her armor and slashing along her good leg.
Benson gasped and brought her own weapon up.
Where was the shooter? She’d seen him, but—
There! The heat of the barrel glowed on her infrared. He was doing something—changing out ammunition, switching out a suppressor mechanism…something.
She sent a tight burst into what had to be center mass, then another, and another.
The enemy weapon clattered to the ground.
“Commander Benson?” It was Dietrich. “Was that the only one?”
“Yes.”
He jogged from the shuttle. “Let me check you—”
“No. Check Chief Parkinson, please.”
Benson struggled upright. If Dietrich offered painkillers again, she wouldn’t be able to say no.
Hunched low, Benson shuffled toward the Azoren weapon. There seemed to be another black form on the ground, slowly taking on more resolution. Maybe the stealth suit had been damaged enough to start failing.
She crouched as low as she could and shone the lamplight on the form, revealing another tall, slim male shape. It bled from two bullet holes, and at least three more bullets were embedded in the armor.
Had the soldier been running out in the open because he didn’t fear being seen? Maybe the Azoren were just stupid. That didn’t seem very likely.
Without the system running at full, the soldier’s weapon was visible. It had an advanced design, with electronics flashing on what she assumed was the upper receiver. Actually, the whole thing seemed like it could be a single piece, but that was more of a testament to the design and build quality.
Benson worked the dead soldier’s mask and helmet free, revealing another extremely pale man with surprisingly soft flesh and narrow nose. The chin and cheekbone were similarly prominent.
Her eyes caught what might be a grenade in a belt pouch.
Had the other body had a grenade, and she missed it?
She took the explosive, rolled the body over, and found another. They went into pouches. She would have to check the first corpse again.
Dietrich was sliding Parkinson’s environment suit closed over a gory patch of flesh that glistened wetly in the glow of the doctor’s light. The grim-faced surgeon glanced up. “He’s quite fortunate. A wound like that…perforated intestine, a severed artery—something severe is almost guaranteed.”
“Nothing?” Benson winced at the red ice reflected in the light.
“Well, he’s lost considerable blood, and there were severed muscles.” Dietrich looked so tired. “He was remarkably fortunate.”
“How were things with the Marines?”
“Apparently, miserable.”
“Why?”
“The main complaint I gathered while trying to seal guts up was that there simply weren’t many clean shots to take. There’s almost as much cover up on the wall as there is down here, and that’s rock.”
“Well, they aren’t all content to stay on the wall.”
Dietrich considered the two Azoren corpses. “Are there any others down here?”
Benson added Fero and Gadreau to her channel with the doctor, relaxing when the signal indicated green. “Major Fero, Captain Gadreau, we have enemies inside the perimeter.”
Fero’s connection flashed blue when she transmitted. “Not from the north. We can’t see anything.”
“They’re using some sort of camouflage suit.”
“Then why’s the turret gun firing?”
“Those sensors we put up on the wall don’t just rely on visual detection.”
Gadreau’s line indicator went blue. “The people on the south wall don’t have that. We can see them a little, but they’ve gone to ground.”
Decoys. Benson fought a sense of sympathy. That was the only thing she had in common with those Azoren soldiers. “Get a head count. Keep your people in groups of three. They don’t appear to keep those stealth suits running the whole time, so we can assume they use up power.”
“They do.” Gadreau sounded like he resented having to share such precious knowledge.
Benson gathered another pair of grenades from the other Azoren corpse and pulled the helmet assembly the rest of the way off. The face was angular but with boyish flesh, like looking at a kid thrust into manhood—no whiskers, no scars, no sign of sunlight touching the sharp, almost pretty features.
Dietrich crouched next to the body. “So this is an Azoren?”
“I guess.”
“A mix of feminine and masculine. Soften the features a little here and here, and you have quite a handsome female face.”
“I was thinking the same thing. Like pretty little boys fast-forwarded into men.”
“What would they hope to gain with something like this?” The doctor grabbed the back of Benson’s wounded thigh, sending all new pain through her. “All right, Commander Benson, time to deal with your wounds now.”
“I—”
“You’re bleeding. At the very least, I can put a stop to that and seal your flesh and suit back up. Exposing yourself to this sort of cold for too long would be a very poor decision.”
There was no point arguing that. Benson sat down and let the doctor work his magic. And this time, when Dietrich held up the injector, Benson presented the arm where the injection site would allow the painkiller in.
“Just to take the edge off.”
He smirked. “I say the same thing when I drink.”
She couldn’t let that comment get to her. She needed to be alert, but too much pain was just as bad as grogginess. The fight against the Azoren wasn’t going to be a quick engagement. If she was going to be of any value, she had to dampen the pain at least a little.
Sergeant Simms dropped into the cramped, black belly of the Badger, environment suit and armor glistening with ice. “Gunfire. Back in the crater. I’m sure of it.”
Stiles cocked her head but couldn’t hear anything. Then it dawned on her that the old man probably had the audio intake on his helmet cranked to full.
She licked her lips. They were just a bit more than a kilometer out, and there was still no sign of Grier and Halliwell. If the Badger picked up speed, they’d be at the end of the narrow canyon in less than a minute. But they might run into whatever had gotten the Marines.
The lieutenant pulled her rebreather free and shoved her helmet back just long enough for the cold air to bite her flesh and for the distant pops of gunfire to reach her ear.
Gunfire. Definitely. She slid everything back into place, hacking for a second before the diesel exhaust could be sucked out. She stretched over Halliwell’s empty seat, around the ladder and Simms, then slapped the back of the driver’s chair. “Get us up to fifteen kilometers per hour!”
The driver grumbled just loud enough to be heard, then the Badger seemed to lunge forward. It wasn’t that big of a jump in speed, but they’d been crawling since the repair work.
Stiles flashed a thumbs-up to Simms. “Keep a sharp eye out.”
He wiped his facemask free of ice. “Will do.”
They were coming up on another sharp bend. The lumbering vehicle could manage the turn at their present speed, but they’d be moving awfully fast to spot a booby trap. It would take too long to stop, have everyone pile out, then stop again to let everyone in if there were no threat beyond the bend. It was simple math to approximate the odds of an attack and to weigh those against the value of time lost. The biggest variable was the Badger—how effective would its old armor be against an explosion? Could it withstand heavy weapons fire?
Calculations were easy for Stiles. It was part of the cold distancing she’d been conditioned for. Her decision wasn’t based on pride or stubbornness or any of the other things that might otherwise render a person ineffective.
The driver craned her neck to look back into the bay. “Turning!”
Stiles checked her weapon. The diesel exhaust was a sharp taste in her mouth. She spat in
to the mask drainage tube, which helped.
Kohn squeezed the grip of his weapon.
What was it Grier had done to calm him last time? Stiles stretched across the way and repeated what she’d seen.
He nodded. “Thanks.”
Sergeant Carruth leaned toward her, as if he might say something, but the Badger slid slightly as it went into the turn, and he threw up a hand to brace himself against her seat.
And then the vehicle hopped slightly, riding on a pressure wave that seemed to almost suppress the roar of the birthing explosion.
The ancient, armored beast slammed against the stone wall.
Ringing, an aching sensation behind the ears and eyes.
Then awareness that the turret weapon was firing. Simms seemed to be full of energy, shouting one second, then screaming. He had a target off to his left.
The north.
A flash of light, then another pressure wave—lesser than the first—and Simms slid down into the compartment—first his legs, then what was left of his torso.
Smoke and steam rose from his charred form.
Gunfire continued on. Stiles caught the ping of rounds seeking any vulnerability in the armor.
But the Badger held. It rumbled forward.
Carruth squeezed past, careful to avoid Simms’s corpse, then darted up the ladder and into the turret. Almost immediately, he swiveled the gun slightly, and the ancient weapon roared, louder than the ringing.
Ever since the ringing had diminished enough to hear again, Stiles had made out two different sounds—the roar of the turret gun and the slightly higher pitch and quicker cycling of a different weapon. Not theirs.
Azoren, then. Not the ones she was familiar with, either.
The driver slumped slightly. “End of the path ahead.”
A new sound joined the symphony of weapons fire: their own Grizzly carbines.
Then an explosion.
And the turret gun went silent.
Carruth slid down the ladder. “Got ’em. I think Halliwell and Grier are up on the wall.”
The carbines. Stiles smacked the back of the driver’s seat. “Hold up, Corporal.”
Stiles opened the back of the vehicle, waited a few seconds, then popped her head out.
Shadowy forms were scrambling down the rock wall. When they hit the ground, signals lit up on the tactical overlay of Stiles’s facemask: Grier and Halliwell.
The sergeant jogged toward them as if he were running across packed dirt instead of ice-slicked stone. “Catch a ride, Lieutenant?”
Grier chuckled behind him. “Show some leg!”
Stiles ducked back into the Badger. It sounded terrible now, and Kohn was leaning forward, as if staring at Simms’s blasted corpse, but she realized he was listening to the vehicle.
The petty officer shook his head. “Better get us moving. I don’t think we’ve got much longer.”
Grier and Halliwell dropped into their seats as the hatch closed, and without a word, the driver sent them lurching down the valley.
Toward whatever awaited them in the ruins.
21
O’Bannon had run through every curse he knew, and in his years serving on the Moskav front line, there had been ample opportunity to learn curses. Up and down the wall, along the width that his men had spread out, bullets cracked off stone or occasionally armor. Too often, they found flesh, and if the victim were lucky, there was a muffled scream.
They were crouched behind rocks, a handful of his men maybe as high as three meters above, twice as many three to five meters below. The rest were with him, pressed hard against ledges or smooth boulders that had melted into the surrounding rock. All of that rock—no matter that it was hard and unyielding when he pressed against it—seemed insufficient to protect his men. When the rounds came from the floor below, they seemed to find every crack, hole, and splinter in the cover.
Had Franke survived the descent, he could have silenced more of the guns. He was an unerring aim, still young enough to be patient and to ignore the discomfort and exposure they faced on this wall.
But all the major had now was a couple sergeants and some promising young soldiers. None of those men would see their full potential if he didn’t do something soon.
“Private Andressen.”
The young man was hunched behind a low wall of rock a meter away. “Major?”
“There was a grenade on the lieutenant’s body. Did you happen to see it?”
“The grenade? Yes. I think.”
“Can you make your way back to him and bring the grenade here?”
“I will, Major.”
Andressen squeezed past on elbows and knees, keeping low and being cautious when the limited cover forced him up or there was no ledge to crawl over. O’Bannon looked away, unable to watch the young man’s progress for fear of seeing a bullet take him.
Instead, the major smiled at Private Lyonne, who had moved to Andressen’s position. “And you, Private.”
“Yes, Major?” The beefy young man could have been just as pasty and “pure” as any of Captain Knoel’s Black Lightning Commandos had the hierarchy been less obsessed with appearance and more concerned with performance and capabilities.
“That small group of soldiers below you? You see them?”
“I do, sir.”
“Good. And you see that position there?” O’Bannon pointed to a spot a few meters farther down and to the east from where the other soldiers were.
“I see it, Major. Better cover.”
“Indeed, but it was something I didn’t see until now, and they won’t be able to see it themselves from their position. Can you guide them to it?”
Lyonne’s helmet traced the path from the new position to the other soldiers a few times, then he nodded. “I can do this, sir.”
“Do so now. But wait for a lull in the fire, and stay to cover.”
“Yes, Major. I will drop to those rocks just below us. You see?”
“Good. A very good first step. When you get them into position, wait for the rest of us.”
“I will, Major.”
The sporadic gunfire from the positions below let up, and the young man rolled over the rocks giving him cover, then slid down to the clump of protective rock below. He was out of sight before the first rounds cracked against the wall above his head.
O’Bannon released the breath he’d been holding. Lyonne was a good soldier, one that brought pride to his commander. But Franke had been a good soldier.
Nothing guarantees life.
And the crater…it seemed not to care how clever or loyal you were. It was a dark maw, a hungry beast that was ready to consume anyone foolish enough to enter its depths. Bravery and cleverness were mere instruments assured of getting you killed, maybe later, maybe sooner.
But the damned fool Knoel had definitely sent them all to their deaths.
Where was the Commandos’ bravery when the opportunity came to show just how fearless they were? It was as hidden as Knoel and his fellow aberrations, creatures designed by scientists, creatures meant to replace real humans because they came closer to some ridiculous notion of an ideal.
Exactly as O’Bannon and Franke had suspected, the captain had used them as lures, flesh to draw in the hungry bullets of a new enemy. Cannon fodder.
It wasn’t the first time O’Bannon had seen such cowardly behavior.
Snow had fallen thick and gray that day, like ash from a fire whose flames had touched the heavens. All around him, tall trees rose. They had narrow trunks and soft wood that bent with the heavy winds when they raked the plateau. And where those trees thinned out, a kilometer east of his position, the ground gently sloped downward before leveling off again at the base of another hill. There were no trees there. The Moskav soldiers had cleared everything down to stumps for a good hundred meters all around the hill.
Atop that hill, they took cover behind a mix of rock, dirt, and timber.
A fortification design taken from their ancestors.
/> Command had scoffed at the simple structure. They had talked about erasing it with artillery and missile fire.
Instead, they had sent in a Commando group to help Major O’Bannon and his green soldiers. This was, after all, what the Commandos excelled at. They were brilliant and brave and beyond reproach—the elite soldiers who would lead the Azoren to victory!
And the plan the young Commando group captain had devised?
Sending O’Bannon and his force against the front of the redoubt while the Commandos infiltrated from the rear.
One hundred meters without cover. Through snow as deep as their hips.
It was exactly what everyone feared of the new senior officers running the Moskav campaign and their favorite toys, the Commandos.
O’Bannon had told his men they would only have to make the charge, then retreat back to cover. It meant minutes rushing into automatic fire, then minutes running away from it. Certainly, they could fire on the fortification, but the Moskav were hunkered down, with very little exposed.
And their guns. Their simple, ancient guns.
The bullets could still tear through armor. They could easily tear through flesh.
That didn’t shake the young soldiers, who roared at O’Bannon’s speech and raised their own assault rifles. They would taste victory in this engagement, one of the first against more experienced Moskav soldiers.
So they had followed their commander, shouting out his name and the name of their unit once they cleared the trees.
And they had lifted their legs high and had rushed the fortification.
Then they had heard the thunder of a hundred rifles firing. Blood had misted around the frontmost soldiers, who had staggered and pitched forward or crumpled or fallen onto their backs.
Not one of the young men had broken, though. They had charged behind their commander, who somehow managed to continue on when bullets careened off his armor.
Until they were at the base of the fort, with half their comrades down.
