Gott Mit Uns (Terran Strike Marines Book 5)

by Richard Fox

  “Yes, sir,” Garrison said as he hurried forward. “You need a real Marine now? Don’t be too hard on Max. He tries.”

  Max gave him the finger then took his place on their small security perimeter.

  “Gimme some options,” Hoffman said, looking at the open ground between the fence and the buildings. “I never thought I’d be breaking into an insane asylum.”

  “Max couldn’t cut the power? Why’d we even do that police station raid?” Garrison shook his head. “The breacher’s work is never done.”

  “If we hadn’t disabled the security node, there would already be three squads of Ibarran legionnaires dropping out of Mules,” Hoffman said. “Messing with the modern tech is a surefire way of telling the real Ibarrans that someone with a clue is down here doing something they shouldn’t.”

  “Sorry, LT. I was just thinking out loud,” Garrison said.

  Hoffman listened to his breacher and studied the fence, which was much more daunting this close up. The metal was stainless steel—nothing close to the omnium-forged materials he was used to dealing with in the Terran Fleet—but it was thick, well-crafted, and the posts looked like they were set deep into concrete.

  It was also a double fence, which had been deceptive from their more distant vantage point. Anyone who cut through the first layer would get trapped between the first and second fence.

  “I bet they have dogs running between the barriers,” Max said.

  Hoffman didn’t disagree. With razor wire coiled around the top and power surging through the metal links, the primitive barrier was much more effective than he had expected—especially without Strike Marine armor to absorb the damage forcing their way through would cause.

  “I could just stretch a little burn cord right here, set it off, and then crawl through,” said Garrison. “It’s set to a very specific detonation current. One of the more effective safety measures I never appreciated until now.”

  “How much burn cord are you carrying?” Hoffman asked, regretting his decision to put Garrison in civilian clothing and not on King’s team, where he might have responded with lots of useful tools.

  Garrison shrugged. “I’ve got enough to do both fences, but then I’m out. Nothing left for problems we’re probably going to encounter in there.” He pointed to the asylum.

  “Tell me the rest.” Hoffman was tired. He wanted this to be easy, but he also knew his breacher’s body language and what was coming next.

  “Well, LT, I could do it that way if I was an amateur who didn’t take pride in his work. But…”

  “What’s he want now?” Max stage-whispered.

  Garrison whined theatrically, “Hey, techno geek, you know what would be really useful right now? My full breaching kit. Let me just open it up…Oh, wait!”

  “Just tell me what you need,” Hoffman said.

  “If I had a little denethrite and a tamping agent…normally, I use IV bags from Booker, but she’s not carrying her full med kit either. I have a trick I learned at breacher school and would like to try. I’ve been carrying a CFH-14 tamping tape for a while and I think now would be the time to try it out. All I need is my gear.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” said Hoffman. “All of that is with Steuben and King at the spaceport. I sent for it…we’ve just got to wait.”

  “But,” Garrison said, “I imagine that Gunney King has nothing better to do than bring it to us. Once I have the proper tools and supplies, it’s easy. I run this tape in a pattern like so,” he said, pointing at where he would do his work, “then attach the det cord on this side. When it goes off, the microblast will push the CFH-14 tamping tape straight through both fences. It’ll cut this as neatly as a pair of your grandmother’s scissors.”

  “That’s an interesting metaphor, but I take your point. I’ve seen the technique used in training.” Hoffman knew Garrison was right, but he didn’t like the idea of pulling his reserve from their surveillance of the star port. He wanted that to be locked down and ready to go when he got there with Valdar in tow. But that only worked if he could rescue the admiral first.

  He rallied the team with hand signals and pulled back to one of the nearby buildings to shelter out of sight. Moments after Hoffman and his team pulled back, a trio of German shepherds trotted between the fences. They stopped and sniffed, searched the area for several moments, then moved on.

  “You ever been bitten by a dog?” Booker asked no one in particular.

  “I had a buddy who was a trainer,” Garrison said. “He talked me into wearing the bite suit a few times. Didn’t think it would be a big deal, but the pressure a dog bite puts on your arm—or wherever—is truly disturbing.”

  “Are you OK? Need a hug?” Booker asked him, snickering at his pale face.

  “It’s not a pleasant memory. Let’s never talk about it again.” Garrison patted his pockets like he was looking for some of his explosive ordnance, then pulled out what little det cord he had. “How about that resupply, Lieutenant?”

  Hoffman opened the flip phone, wishing he could call King directly. “Hammer Six for Chrome Face, how copy?”

  “Well, I copy fine, thank you for asking,” Marc Ibarra responded almost immediately. The connection was solid but scratchy. “Are you calling to inform me you have the admiral and are on your way to the rendezvous point? It seems a little soon, but I never doubted you for a moment. Good work, my boy.”

  “There’s been a snag,” Hoffman said.

  “Always a snag. Nothing can ever be simple.” Marc Ibarra hummed a show tune. “You Strike Marines are good at handling those sorts of contingencies. I have complete faith in your prowess.”

  “The fireworks will start soon, Ibarra. Be ready to move when they go off.”

  ****

  King swore. “I’m no happier about this than you are, Steuben.”

  “A dramatic deviation from the plan will be problematic,” the Karigole warrior said. “There’s a reason we spent three hours establishing this observation post. I can see the entire approach to the star port. None of their perimeter patrols can escape my notice and I have planned three ways to infiltrate. Each is dependent on maintaining a log of their security habits.”

  “Nothing can ever be simple,” King muttered, then added several layers of profanity to relieve his frustration. He stared at the awkward, four-wheeled conveyance they’d liberated to move the team’s gear to the rendezvous point. The internal combustion engine was loud and puked exhaust that gagged him if they left the windows rolled down. “Let’s pack it up. You need to move out in two minutes. None of this matters if we don’t have the admiral.”

  King and Steuben met at the brightly painted four-wheel-drive vehicle some farmer’s teenager was going to miss when he woke up in the morning. It looked like it should be an off-road reconnaissance vehicle, but had more chrome on it than a Phoenix nightclub and speakers big enough to blast music all the way to the city.

  A short time later, he stood with Steuben looking at the driver’s seat. The learning curve had been rough. King was honestly surprised there was even a transmission left in the crude vehicle.

  “Someone should be imprisoned for creating such a monstrosity,” Steuben said.

  King hefted Garrison’s explosive ordnance and breaching kit into the back of the truck and strapped it down. “Get this to our breacher, then get back here ASAP with the admiral and the rest of the team.”

  Steuben crawled behind the steering wheel. “It is amazing humans made it to the stars. This thing is a rusted out box. Did they even use precision machining in the twenty-first century?”

  “I’m sure they thought this was high-tech back then,” King said, closing the door and leaning one hand on the edge of the window. “Comfortable?”

  Steuben twisted and turned in the seat, the combination of his height and his legionnaire armor overburdening the available space. “I just need a moment. What is this strap? Did someone believe it an adequate safety harness?”

  King had i
mmediately noticed the lack of four-point safety restraints but had decided not to bring it up. The Karigole was already rocking the truck in his attempts to get situated.

  “You can’t drive and shoot at the same time,” King said. “Just put your rifle on the seat. Maybe cover it with something in case you get pulled over by the cops.”

  “Why would they pull me over?”

  “If I were a beat cop, a six-foot-five alien with a mechanical hand would arouse my curiosity. And you drive like an idiot with no concept of traffic laws,” King said. “Pop quiz, which side of the road are you supposed to drive on?”

  The Karigole growled. “That is a dumb question, probably a trick. I will of course drive on the side best suited to my needs at the time.”

  King looked at his feet, shaking his head. “No, Steuben. You have to drive on the right side of the center line. It’s the law.”

  “Humans make laws governing how to drive?”

  “They did in 2002. There weren’t autocars back then. Not a lot of public transport,” King said.

  “I’m ready,” Steuben finally said.

  “You’re sure.”

  “Positive.” Steuben shifted one last time.

  King leaned back to avoid catching an elbow in the face. “Good, because the LT needs you there five minutes ago. Try not to wreck or get arrested or get lost, Steuben. Don’t draw attention.”

  “I’m sure no one will see all of this chrome and paint, or hear the engine backfire,” Steuben deadpanned. “Why do you force me to drive such a thing if the goal is to blend?”

  “Make it work, Steuben. We don’t have much time.” King stepped back. “I’ll hold the star port until you get back with Valdar.”

  “I will see you then, and you will apologize for getting me involved in this mess.” Steuben cranked the key and the engine roared to life, diesel fumes belching from the aftermarket exhaust pipes.

  ****

  “What the hell is that sound? I won’t miss all this noise when we’re done with this mission,” Booker said. “I never anticipated the rattle and boom of old-world technology.”

  “How would you?” Max asked. “We’re always getting dumped into lost worlds or tossed back and forth between void ships like it’s a game.”

  Hoffman listened to his team and watched for the QRF. Although there was less vehicle and pedestrian traffic this late at night, they’d observed several police cars roll past their position. Max had located their broadcast frequency easily enough, despite a crude attempt at digital encryption, and he listened to periodic all-points bulletins about the disturbance at the police station. Fortunately for Hoffman and his team, there was a steady flow of unrelated police calls as well.

  Booker also listened in. “They have a lot of problems, considering Ibarra’s claim that they don’t have crime. They must’ve scripted some of it for this microcosm experiment. The things we’ve seen in the last hour…”

  “It’s been educational,” Hoffman said.

  A massive four-wheeled vehicle turned through an intersection near Hoffman’s hiding place. Each time it accelerated, it made a noise that probably awoke everyone in the city. Hoffman was amazed that windows didn’t light up in the wake of its passage.

  “I thought you told them not to be seen,” Booker said.

  “I’m assuming vehicle choices were limited,” Hoffman said, moving forward to greet them.

  The engine of the vehicle chugged to a stop. Steuben climbed out, kicking the door shut and cursing in Karigole. He yanked the breaching gear from the bed and stalked toward Hoffman. “This is a terrible mission. Why can’t we just shoot some people and go home?”

  “Happy you made it. How was traffic? Never mind. Follow me. Once Garrison sets off his charges, we’ll have to adapt on the move. We’ve already run into a bit of trouble at the police station,” Hoffman said.

  “Why would you do that, LT?” Steuben asked.

  “Long story. Let’s just say we didn’t want a bunch of Ibarran legionnaires dropping down on us,” Hoffman said, waving the team together for a short briefing. “Had to disable their control node, which was inconveniently located.”

  “We tried to infiltrate,” Garrison said, then hugged the bundle of gear the Karigole delivered.

  “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” Steuben said.

  “Well, uh…I was acting the part,” the breacher said, quickly rummaging through his kit and pulling out a tattered T-shirt with the number 76 printed on it. Holding it to his face, he inhaled deeply through the wrinkled fabric. “My lucky T-shirt. I really missed you.”

  “There’s something seriously wrong with you,” Max said.

  “Whatever, Max. Nothing can stop us now that I have my lucky shirt.”

  Hoffman signaled for silence. “Steuben will go first in his stealth cloak. Try to clear out resistance with as little fuss as possible. The rest of us will follow until we have Valdar’s position locked in. Then we grab him and get to the spaceport. Garrison, are you ready?”

  “Take two minutes to get prepped, and then a second closing a radio frequency on this silly flip-phone-not-flip-phone,” Garrison said, pulling his not-so-fresh shirt over his head. He ignored them and worked with practiced efficiency that belied his normal facade. “There. Pretty simple once I have the right materials. Just need to set it up and blow it,” the breacher replied.

  “Someone cut the sleeves of your shirt,” Booker said.

  “Isn’t it bitchin’?” Garrison flexed for a second, then hefted his gear. “I’m ready, LT.”

  “Outstanding. Let’s get this done.” Hoffman provided cover for Garrison as they crossed to the fence.

  The breacher assessed the double fence, then applied the CFH-14 tape and a narrow wedge of denethrite on top of the tamping tape. Seconds later, he affixed the det cord on top of the bundle, clipped a tiny ignition module to one end, and stepped back.

  “Good to go, boss,” Garrison said.

  Hoffman signaled the rest of the team. Each member gave him the thumbs-up.

  “Three, two, one…” Garrison whispered, then touched a button on his phone. The small explosion cut perfect holes through both fences. Dust jumped into the air from the shockwave of overpressure.

  The blast was tame compared to others Hoffman had witnessed, but it still set off car alarms in the distance. Max’s hack of the security node seemed to hold, or at least no Ibarran legionnaires or automated defenses were rising up from the ground to blow them to hell.

  "I'll go first," Steuben said to King, adjusting his stealth cloak and taking point.

  Hoffman quickly lost sight of him. He knew right where the Ember War hero should be, and where King would likely be moving to support him, but still only had the vaguest sense of their actual positions.

  Moving fast, he and his team came across one guard after another that had been rendered either dead or unconscious.

  “Wow, Steuben’s really good at this,” Max muttered.

  “Can you imagine what he looks like materializing from thin air?” Booker responded. “I almost feel sorry for these Ibarran tube babies—sorry, boss.”

  Hoffman ignored her. It wasn’t the first time they’d forgotten he was also a procedurally generated human designed to do one thing.

  Without the constant updates from tactical comm links that Strike Marine armor would have provided, he felt like he was always playing catch-up. Focusing on the mission kept him occupied. It kept his mind off of the loss of Opal.

  “If we survive this mission, I’m never taking off my Strike Marine armor again,” Booker said, still blushing.

  "It's amazing what we take for granted," Hoffman muttered. “Eridu wasn’t this frustrating.”

  Booker cleared an angle one direction while he cleared the other, barking results. “Clear, nothing seen. I feel like a cavewoman without our tac channel.”

  "The only person I can call without holding the phone to my ear is Marc Ibarra, and I don't think he’d be helpful in this situa
tion," Hoffman said. “Didn’t they have wireless headsets in 2002?”

  “Had to, but we didn’t get them issued,” Booker said, checking locked doors along the hallway.

  “I’m firing the tech advisor.”

  “You should.”

  "You know what else would be good?" Garrison muttered as they moved quickly down the hallway. "I mean, thanks for giving me my explosives back, but if we had our night vision, the infrared layer would help us track the Karigole.”

  "Thank you, Captain Obvious," Max said, pulling his Glock back as he rounded a corner and cleared part of the hallway. Once he moved into the new area, he pressed the weapon forward again. “Why don't you do less talking and more walking?”

  His technique was good. Despite all the complaining, the team had adapted to the new environment with solid tactics and synchronized movements. Max, like the others on the team, pulled back his pistol before going through doors or rounding corners in case an adversary was waiting just out of view to try and grab his weapon. Whenever possible, they approached at an angle, cutting the visual pie, to see as much of each new room or hallway as possible before entering it. Some tactics were universal with or without high-tech gear.

  Hoffman came around the next corner and signaled a halt, then moved forward until he could examine the area Steuben was trying to cross without revealing himself. He lowered his weapon but kept it ready in case the Karigole had missed someone.

  Several hallways opened into a common area full of computer terminals and an elevator bank on one side.

  “Some sort of nurses’ station or triage area. Not clear. Hold position,” Hoffman said.

  “Holding,” Booker said quietly.

  The Karigole warrior, still nearly invisible, yanked a man away from his workstation. Other people retreated from the disturbance with looks of alarm and confusion on their faces.

  Hoffman resisted the urge to rush in and help. He wanted to shout commands and order everybody to the floor so they could be zip-tied, but he didn't have any zip ties and didn't want to risk exposing his unarmed team members. There was no guarantee he could dominate everyone in this facility without his Strike Marines in their full gear. He didn’t want a repeat of the police station fight.