Counterstrike: The Separatist Wars Book 2

by Thomas Webb

  Hale glanced up at the mounted heads, the trophies bringing to mind the melee he’d created outside. The distraction that was just now dying down. He looked at the varg heads specifically. Glad you could at least get some payback, he thought.

  The team spread out, clearing the room and meeting no resistance. Large windows opened to a view of the forest below and the mountains beyond. Hale kept them all moving, conscious of their backlit silhouettes against the darkness outside.

  The living space yielded to a hallway with rooms along either side. With all the guards occupied cleaning up the aftermath of the varg attack, Hale didn’t expect a fight just yet. He glanced at his chrono. Outside it was quiet now. Only a matter of minutes before the guards resumed their normal patrol patterns.

  Space by space, they cleared each room along the hallway. When they were done, only one short set of stairs remained. Hale figured that led to the master bedroom. With the rest of the place cleared, LeBlanc had to be there.

  “Here’s hoping they don’t have a safe room,” Zombie said.

  Hale frowned. “Don’t jinx us, Two.”

  Still in the lead, Hale hopped up the steps. A minute later and they were in. The master bedroom contained two closets, a dresser and a computing station. A massive four-post bed dominated the room. Hale went left, clearing along the wall. Kris went right. Lash took the closets, while Zombie leaned down, dipping low to check the bed.

  Zombie swept her pulse rifle light underneath. She rose with a sigh. “Clear,” she uttered.

  “Clear,” Lash said, emerging from the closet.

  “Left’s clear,” Hale finished.

  Kris held her position at the door to the bathroom.

  Zombie indicated the bathroom entrance. “Mind if I take this one boss?”

  Hale shrugged. “Don’t see why I should get to have all the fun.” He moved to the second-person slot. “You got it, Two.”

  Lash fell in behind Hale. Meanwhile Zombie stepped to the side of the door, clear of the space in front of the entrance that operators referred to as the ‘fatal funnel.’ Kris ‘Nac, her hand on the door, waited for the team to get set.

  “Ready?” Kris whispered.

  “Ready,” Zombie said.

  Kris pulled the door open. Zombie swept inside.

  Hale was right on her six. Zombie went left, heading toward an intersection. Hale broke the other direction, clearing the space between the door and checking a large closet filled with nothing more than shelves of towels, robes, and cleaning supplies. With no space to make entry, Lash and Kris held fast behind them.

  “Clear,” Hale announced, seeing no threat in his small sector.

  “Clear,” Zombie said from the anteroom.

  “Lash,” Hale said. “Bag that computing station we saw in the bedroom. You and Kris grab anything else you can find.”

  “Copy that Hale,” Lash said through his helmet audio.

  “Hey boss,” Zombie called. “I got something here. Come take a look.”

  An expansive bathing area came into view. A deep stone tub, set with metallic alloy fixtures, sat in the center. Just above the tub was an open window, the towels hanging below it blowing in the frigid breeze. Hale looked out. He used his HUD to zoom in, focusing on a set of tracks leading from the bottom of the chalet to a work shed outside.

  “He’s squirted.” Hale said. “How’d we miss that building in the back?”

  “The chalet itself is huge,” Zombie said. “Must have blocked it from our view. Wasn’t like we had schematics before we hit this place.”

  “Yeah. Not the best way to assault a target.”

  Hale heard yelling from the floors below. He and Zombie exchanged a look.

  “Go,” Zombie said. “We got this. You bag Leblanc and we’ll hold here. When Shane comes in for exfil we’ll be right behind you.”

  Hale moved toward the open window. “If you aren’t out there in three minutes, I’m coming back for you.”

  “Just move your ass,” Zombie said, already seating a fresh pulse mag and heading toward the fight.

  Wasting no more time Hale burst through the window, his sizeable frame in the armor breaking out the remainder of the window and some of the framework surrounding it. He leapt from the second story, the armor’s gyros absorbing the impact of the landing. Hale followed the path he’d seen from above. A light snow began to fall.

  As Hale followed the tracks, the sounds of a firefight broke through the silence. The noise of battle faded behind him as he approached the work shed. The door stood ajar. Hale went in, business-end of his rifle leading.

  “Do you know what this is?” a voice, the French accent heavy, asked.

  LeBlanc stood off in the corner. Hale eyed the instrument he held in his hands. A thermite flare. More than capable of putting a thousand-degree hole through both Hale’s armor and Hale.

  “I know what it is,” Hale said.

  “Good. Then you will drop your rifle. You will put the pulse pistol down as well.”

  Hale hadn’t expected the thermite. No way was he going to surrender to a Separatist bomber. He had to think fast.

  “Drop it!” Leblanc repeated.

  “Take it easy,” Hale said, an idea occurring to him. “Okay. You win.”

  Hale’s rifle clattered to the floor at his armored feet. He held his hands out to show they were empty, before slowly drawing his pulse pistol from its holster. Then, with all his augmented might, Hale flung it directly at Leblanc’s head.

  Time seemed to slow. Hale exploded into motion, hurling himself through the air. LeBlanc, to his credit, recovered quickly. The Separatist bomb maker charged the thermite stick, tossing it at Hale. Hale twisted mid-air, the flare grazing his armor and streaking down his side, taking melted peristeel and flesh along with it.

  An agonizing burn seared the side of Hale’s torso, like nothing he had ever felt. He gritted his teeth against the scorching pain, fighting not to black out as he collided into LeBlanc. They went down in a tumble.

  Even with a serious wound, Leblanc was no match for an armored Hale. But the Separatist fighter had one last trick up his sleeve. Rage burned in LeBlanc’s eyes as he reached behind his back and pulled something. Hale couldn’t focus through the red haze of hurt. He didn’t realize what Leblanc held until the neutralizer slammed into his armor.

  Hale’s body seized as voltage shot through his armor’s neural network, the HUD flashing crimson as it shut down. With no power to his gear, Hale did the only thing he could until it came back online—he slammed his helmet straight into LeBlanc’s face.

  Hale felt LeBlanc’s nose crunch. The enemy fighter roared as blood began to pour from his broken nose. Enraged, LeBlanc squat pressed Hale and his armor, pushing off with both legs and flinging the recon Marine away. Hale slammed into the wall of the shed. On the verge of consciousness and still fighting through the excruciating burn in his side, he saw Leblanc scramble for the rifle. With his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps, Hale played his last card. He dove for the pistol he’d thrown.

  Hale reached out, grabbing for the weapon. His hand wrapped around the pistol’s grip. Hale squeezed the grip and sighted in, just as he found himself staring down the barrel of his own rifle. He pulled the trigger twice, putting two shots into LeBlanc.

  Hale, his armor now nothing more than dead weight, struggled to his feet. His vision swam. His side burned, like a class C star gone supernova. He ripped off his helmet one-handed, dropping it to the floor. The scent of his own charred flesh assaulted him, bringing on a sudden wave of dizziness. He steadied himself against the wall before aiming in on Leblanc. He staggered toward the downed man, one hand on his weapon, the other gripping his ruined side.

  Hale kicked the rifle out of Leblanc’s reach, somehow maintaining his balance in the process. He looked down. The Separatist was dying, his eyes already glassing over. LeBlanc’s breaths came at ragged, irregular intervals. Two neat holes were seared through his chest, just where the lungs were lo
cated. A hard way to die.

  “You’re. . . on the way out,” Hale gasped. The pain was terrific. “Do one good thing. . . before you go. The bombs. . .where are they? What’s Ramsey’s plan?”

  Leblanc smiled and shook his head. “Untraceable.” He coughed, wheezing, producing a sick rattle from deep inside his chest cavity. “Undetectable pulse bomb.” A fit seized him. His last seconds were upon him.

  Hale dropped to his knees, gritting his teeth against the grinding, fiery pain. He grabbed the dying man by his jacket. “Where?!” Hale shouted, the effort to raise his voice taking much more from him than he would have anticipated.

  Leblanc looked past Hale. His eyes became unfocused, seeing something Hale could not. He coughed. “Pour la cause,” Leblanc managed to say. He died with a sigh.

  Hale pushed the dead fighter away and groaned, gripping his side in agony. The shed door burst open with a gust of wind and snow.

  Zombie rushed inside. “They’re on our asses, boss. We gotta move. We—what the actual fuck happened to you?”

  “Got the. . . the drop on me,” Hale uttered.

  Zombie swore. She gave LeBlanc a quick check. “Looks like you got the last word, at least.” Zombie locked her rifle to her chest and broke out her trauma kit. Hale stifled a scream as she sprayed his side with foaming disinfectant. Her capable hands retrieved an armor patch from her gear.

  “We tried to get hold of you,” she said. She looked over at Hale’s discarded helmet. “Your comms were off.”

  Hale almost cried out in relief when the foam’s pain suppressing chemicals kicked in. The hurt was still there, but far less than what it had been. “LeBlanc got me with a thermite flare,” he said. “And an armor neutralizer.”

  “Christ in the stars,” Zombie uttered. “He did get the drop on you, didn’t he?”

  “Status,” Hale said, grinding his molars against a fresh onslaught of pain. The gaping burn in his side thrummed in time with his pulse. The pain was lessened, but his entire left side still felt like it was on fire.

  “Lash and Kris are holding. Shane and X37 are inbound.” Zombie slapped on the patch, the material activating and spreading on contact, creating a temporary seal in Hale’s armor. He felt the armor vibrate as it began its reboot sequence.

  A sharp intake of breath when Zombie helped him to his feet. She placed him against a wall for support.

  “This place is blown,” she said. She grabbed Hale’s helmet and rifle from the floor and handed them to him. “There’s one less bomb maker for the Separatists, though.”

  “Yeah,” Hale swallowed. “But our lead died with him.” He donned his helmet and gripped his rifle. He leaned on Zombie as together they hobbled toward the door. Hale waited, impatiently, as his armor came back online. Ignoring the red damage readings on his HUD, he pulled up a view of the fight outside.

  “Valkyrie to Razor Team,” Shane’s voice said inside his helmet. “We’re thirty seconds out. What is your location?”

  “Southwest corner of the structure,” Kris‘nac answered. Hale heard pulse fire in the background of her transmission.

  “We’re barricading to buy time,” Lash added. “Then we’re headed out the back. Unsure of Razor One and Two’s position. Over.”

  “Valkyrie This is One,” Hale said. The foam was doing its job. The pain wasn’t even close to gone, but at least now he could finish a sentence without gasping for air. “We’re in the structure to the rear.”

  “Good to hear your voice Razor One,” Valkyrie said. “You were out of pocket for a minute. Trouble?”

  “Nothing my 2IC couldn’t help me handle.” Hale chuckled, then winced. “Razor Three and Four—secure that room then regroup on me. Once you’re clear, Valkyrie can glass the place,” he added. “Then we can get the fuck outta here. Over.”

  -17-

  “So how the hell did they get outta there?” Montgomery asked. He leaned back behind the desk in his office and laced his hands behind his head.

  Shane swiveled back and forth in the ancient office chair and shrugged. “Me and my AI copilot came in guns blazing. We leveled the place. Then we set down next to what was left of it, loaded our people onboard, and took off.”

  “How’d you know they didn’t have anti-aircraft capabilities?” Monty wanted to know.

  “We didn’t, actually.”

  Jeez,” Montgomery said, shaking his head. “Un-freaking believable.”

  Shane didn’t mind sharing a few details of the op with her old compadre’ Monty. It wasn’t like any of it was classified. She was a civilian now. Lima had briefed her on what she should—and should not—share. “This op we did . . . have you heard anything about it?”

  Montgomery looked over his shoulder, as if the CO might pop in at any minute. But Shane knew the squadron’s Commanding Officer was on leave. She’d checked on his whereabouts before she came back to Fort Wentworth. He was up in New York. Busy kissing some four-star general’s ass in hopes of getting on the promotion list, probably.

  “Well,” Monty began, “when you mentioned Hostia before you came out? I admit I did a little digging.”

  Shane chuckled at that. She knew he would. “And?”

  “And,” Monty laughed, “I found out it was damned hard to get intel on OC planet #31. Not much comes out of there, but there was a report of a gas leak at a wealthy estate. Somewhere up in the foothills of the Canavar mountains.”

  Shane raised an eyebrow. “Knowing you, that’s not the extent of what you found.”

  Now it was Monty’s turn to chuckle. “Yeah. I cross-referenced the owners of the estate with known Separatists ties and surprise—there was a connection. It made sense, given what we’d discussed before. Those owners made a crap-ton of money on the insurance when that place went up, by the way.”

  Shane smirked. “Shame about that gas leak.”

  “Sure was,” Monty agreed. “The irony of people harboring terrorists profiting from the destruction of the property wasn’t lost on me. Now . . . what is it that you came here all fired up to tell me?”

  “Ok,” Shane said, growing serious. “Ever heard of a Separatist named Renee’ LeBlanc?”

  “LeBlanc.” Montgomery tapped his fingers on the desktop. A few swipes in the air and some typing, and LeBlanc’s profile floated before Shane. She watched as Monty read the dossier. His eyes grew wide.

  “Oh shit,” he uttered.

  Shane nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Christ in the Stars, Shane—the guy behind the attack on the Narillius transport? The bomb maker?”

  Shane nodded. “Yeah. Same guy.”

  “So your team went in to get him?”

  “We did.”

  “And?”

  “And now he’s KIA. What was left of him went up with the rest of the place in that ‘gas explosion.’” Shane made air quotes with her fingers.

  “Good riddance,” Monty said. He looked at Shane with uncertainty in his eyes. “So this guy’s dead, right? Then why am I not feeling relieved?”

  “Because you’re outstanding at your job,” Shane answered. “Which is collecting intel, putting two and two together, and sometimes coming up with the right answer, which is six. You’re not relieved because sometimes things are more than the sum of their parts. You’re not relieved because your instincts are spot on.” Shane exhaled. “The team found evidence in that chalet, Monty. Evidence of something big. Before he died, LeBlanc confirmed as much.”

  Monty shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “How big we talkin’ here?”

  “Big enough,” Shane answered. “Untraceable-pulse-bombs-big.”

  Montgomery swore, in a way that was most uncharacteristic for an Air & Space Command intel geek. “Obviously I have to report this, Shane.”

  “I’d expect nothing less,” Shane said.

  “But what else can we do? And what can I do to help you prevent this. .whatever this is, from happening?”

  “Getting the word out’s a start. Make sure all the
intel agencies—UN and Allied Planets—get the warning notification on this one. We have no idea who or what the target will be, but maybe the larger community can work up some scenarios? Try to figure these assholes out before they strike?”

  “I can do that,” Monty said.

  “One thing though, Monty. No one—and I mean no one—can know where this intel came from.”

  He looked wounded. “Shane. Please. I work in intelligence. I know how to protect a source.”

  “Fair enough. I’ve also got something else.”

  “Oh?” Monty said, intrigued. “What is it?”.

  “We managed to pull something from a computing unit we found at the chalet.” Shane reached into her jacket pocket and retrieved a data drive. She handed it to Montgomery, who placed it on his desk and waited for it to activate. Soon a fan-shaped array of holo images materialized. A label above them read “Vahid.”

  “Ever heard of a place called Vahid?” Shane asked.

  “Mmmm,” Monty grunted, half-listening as he scrolled through the holo files. Shane followed Monty’s eyes as they scanned the data. She loved watching people do what they were good at. The same way people enjoyed watching a professional athlete or a starship racer. When it came to sifting and analyzing intelligence data, Montgomery was as good as either.

  “Vahid . . . yeah. That rings a bell.” Monty shifted the files left and opened a new holoscreen. The Air & Space Command seal appeared. Montgomery entered his passcode and got straight to work. “Here we go,” he said. An image of a small, red desert planet appeared. “Yeah. Vahid. It’s a planet on the outskirts of the Ganymede system. It’s being used as a refugee processing center. People fleeing the wars, mostly. Anyone displaced by UN and Separatist fighting.”

  “Wait,” Shane said, confused. “You got a hit? Just like that? Lima ran this by his sources in the UNIA, and they came back with nothing.”