Open Arms (On Silver Wings Book 7)
Page 20
“Two targets down,” Chavez announced.
“Hold on,” Sorilla spoke up. “There are too many of them. I’m not going to be able to stay ahead of them any longer. This ride is about to get bumpy!”
*****
The gun on the APC whirred and roared. Lines of fire lit the air between the APC and the shooters with every shot of the EM accelerator. Dirt exploded from the ground, throwing men and gear into the air and to the ground. Every shot of the gun took time, however—not to reload, as the weapon was an auto-cannon capable of a thousand tungsten rounds per minute, but time to re-aim.
The enemy were arrayed around the APC in all directions, and while the gun could fire extremely quickly, it could only track just so fast. Worse still, the primary targets weren’t positioned in an efficient sweep either. Sorilla had to prioritize targets who were preparing to fire as the highest threats, and that could mean having to traverse the weapon entirely across the firing arc to kill the target, and then sweep right back for the next.
She tried to take out targets in mid-sweep, as opportunities arose, but inevitably she had to pass on secondary threats to engage the primaries. That, unfortunately, left the secondary to become a new primary just seconds later.
It was inevitable that she would begin reaching targets just…moments…too late.
The warping of the air flashed across the intervening space, lightning-quick but far slower than the weapon’s actual effect. The APC took the hit side-on, the angled armor deflecting the force down into the ground and lifting the vehicle up on three wheels briefly as the center tire was shredded, Kevlar and carbon-reinforced polymers flying off in all directions.
True to design, however, the tire held despite missing large chunks of its body. The APC kept moving, stubbornly taking another hit and bulling on through as the big gun continued to roar with a staccato rhythm of thunder and fire.
*****
Inside, Sorilla was sitting in her command station and staring straight ahead. The gun was on auto-fire now, the computer handling the actual release of each round while she just kept control of the tracking system.
“There’s too damn many,” she gritted out. “Everyone get ready. If this goes wrong, we’ll be on foot and fighting in the field in another minute.”
“Finally,” one of the Sentinels growled, eagerly shifting his grip on the alien weapon in his control.
The other Lucians growled their agreement, and it was even mirrored a bit by the human soldiers that sat across from them. Quiet Professionals or not, as patient as the soldiers of the Fifth were, they weren’t entirely immune to the urge to take the fight right into the enemy’s face. In fact, in the current situation, nearly every one of them wanted little more than to do just that.
“Just hang onto that attitude,” the driver called, sounding insulted. “We’re not toasted yet!”
They were still accelerating forward, but now the constant firing of the gun shook them in their seats and rattled everyone’s teeth as the limited suspension built into the personnel bracing was completely defeated by the power of the supersonic concussion of each round.
The occasional blast of the warp guns slamming them around was just terror-filled punctuation.
“Not going to make it,” Sorilla said abruptly before she called out her next instructions. “Master Sergeant, take the gun!”
“About time!” Chavez snarled, leaning into his controls and taking over the firing sequence for the APC’s cannon.
He didn’t have the magic touch the colonel seemed to have with predicting who was going to fire before they did it, but Chavez knew his gun better than she did. He knew how it turned, and how it fired, and just how to squeeze the best out of it in a fight. In only seconds he had the system running on efficient algorithms, picking targets out and off smoothly with the methodical certainty of a machine.
Sorilla hit the quick release on the brace holding her in place and got to her feet, bracing against the roof of the vehicle as she started moving.
“Colonel! What do you think you’re doing!?” Strickland snarled, twisting so he could see her properly.
“You know what my teams called me, after Hayden?” she asked, her voice suddenly much calmer than it had been.
Strickland felt his gut churn. He knew that tone. He’d heard it before. Hell, unless he was very much mistaken, he’d used it before.
“Lieutenant Colonel…” he started, a warning growl climbing from his chest.
Sorilla got into the APC’s computer and cracked the back door, opening it up to the outside as she drew her two guns.
“They started calling me a new name, behind my back,” she said, smiling. “They thought I didn’t know. Is it in my file, Major?”
The ramp was half down as she tensed.
“No, Colonel, it’s not in your file. Now let’s think about this a minute…”
“Get Eri and the prisoner out of here, Major,” she said firmly. “That’s an order.”
As the ramp opened level with the ground, Sorilla crouched just enough to launch herself into a sprint.
“Colonel!” Strickland screamed.
Sorilla hit the ramp as fast as she could physically manage in armor, given the short takeoff and limited room. She jumped off the ramp, throwing her feet forward and her arms out to either side.
“They called me John Wayne.”
*****
“Holy Shit!” Corporal Nicky Farrel blurted, leaning forward so he could see as the guns roared just as the colonel dropped out of sight.
Strickland was swearing. Most of the team looked completely baffled by what had just happened, but the Lucians on the other side had no such compunctions.
“Sentinels!” Kriss roared, laughing. “Will you let the human steal our action? Deploy!”
The aliens were laughingly hitting their quick-release catches, then following the colonel out the back of the still-racing APC.
“Holy shit,” Nicky repeated himself as Strickland apparently managed to curse himself out.
“B-Squad! What are you waiting for?” he snarled. “Back the lady up! Master Sergeant! Ice those motherfuckers!”
Whatever else was going on, Nicky lost track of it in a hurry as he hit the quick-release to his restraints, grabbed his rifle, and followed his squad out the back.
****
Sorilla hit the ground on her back, skidding along the dirt- and dust-covered ground for a few meters before she slowed enough to flip back over her shoulder and use the remaining velocity to bring her to her feet.
Her guns were on full computer release as she aimed them out to either side, letting her implants fire the weapons as needed while she just worried about directing them. They fired automatically, whenever the muzzles crossed an enemy target, leaving part of her mind free to work out exactly what she was going to do now that she’d committed to insanity.
I never should have become an officer. It’s just not where my strengths lie, Sorilla thought grimly as she methodically lined up target after target.
A twisting in her gut caused her to snap around, almost lining her guns up with the shooter until she recognized one of the Lucians firing his own blaster.
“I told you to stay out of this fight,” she said in the clear as she recognized Kriss, picking himself up off the ground and getting his weapon to the ready. “You’re injured.”
“I will fight,” he told her, “until the enemy is dead, or I am. Injuries do not matter.”
Sorilla looked over his shoulder, spotting members of the Special Forces A-team de-assing the APC, and her lips pulled back.
“If you get my team killed,” she snarled, “we will have words.”
She pinged her team’s implants, getting their attention, and whirled her right hand over her head.
“Security perimeter, centered on the APC, now!” she ordered. “The asset and the prisoner get clear, no matter the cost!”
Her team deployed automatically, putting an umbrella between the enemy forces
and the APC, engaging a “retreat under fire” strategy as they did so. Sorilla plugged herself into their formation, feeling like old times had come back for a brief moment.
“Kriss,” she called, “we have to defend the APC!”
“You defend! We attack!”
“Fuck!” Sorilla swore, connecting back to the team channel. “Give them cover if you can, but the APC is our priority!”
Chapter 15
USV SOL
Brigadier Mattan thundered into the tactical observation room of the SOL, eyes blazing.
“What the hell is going on down there?” he demanded. “This was a touring op, basic cultural intel-gathering. Sister could do this work in her sleep. How the hell did it turn into a running gun battle!?”
Ruger glanced up in his direction, shrugging. “She’s not the same woman you knew in the Fifth, Mattan, but as it turns out, they apparently walked into some local drama.”
“Local drama?” Mattan growled. “What kind?”
“Looks like someone took advantage of our team’s arrival to trigger an assassination plan against one of the local barons,” Ruger grumbled, annoyed by the whole situation. “Why they thought they’d have a better chance with a team of armed soldiers onsite, I will never understand.”
“They likely didn’t,” Mattan said absently, focusing on the information he was seeing on the displays. “They were probably going to blame our team for the hit, figured it was worth the added risk to be able to shift the blame to outsiders. They were using Alliance weapons?”
“Confirmed, yes,” Ruger said, “though the Sentinel with the team identified them as counterfeit.”
That caused Mattan to pull up short. “Counterfeit? How does that work?”
“That I don’t know,” Ruger admitted, “but it seemed like a big deal to the Alliance. Just one more piece of this puzzle we’re looking at. I’m starting to think that Aida was right from the start. This is a long way from being about a couple militant cultures kicking up a stink. Someone bigger is pulling strings.”
Mattan snorted. “Someone bigger always is. You really think any revolt or rebellion was ever as clean as the history books pretend it was? Without big money interests, guerilla factions are usually not much worse than a minor annoyance to established governments.”
“Tell that to the founding fathers,” Ruger replied.
“Do you really think that was a revolt?” Mattan asked. “Revolts are when the underclass rise up and overthrow the rulers. In the Americas, the founding fathers were the ruling class. They were the power and the authority and the establishment. That wasn’t a revolt; it was a war of secession. Power against power, albeit unbalanced powers, I agree…and you have no idea how close that came to turning out differently.”
He shook his head. “No. Trust me, Admiral, revolts need backing. The people here would fight regardless, I have no doubts, but to be making the Alliance actually take them seriously, someone is backing them. If these counterfeits are as big a deal to the Alliance as you seem to think, then we’ve located proof of that.”
“All this game-playing isn’t worth our time,” Ruger grumbled. “We need to find the puppet masters. Probably the Alliance itself, playing shadow games with us.”
“Possible,” Mattan conceded, gesturing to focus the tactical display in on the fighting. “The locals, how well-trained are they?”
“Poorly,” Ruger answered. “They’re good enough shots, but tactically they’re completely unfamiliar with their weaponry. That many warp blasters, they should have turned the villa to a crater and been done with it.”
Mattan nodded slowly. “Where are we on air support?”
“Took a couple minutes to clear it with the Alliance, but they’re dropping through the upper atmo now. Seven minutes to intercept.”
Mattan grimaced.
Seven minutes was a long time on the ground with no support.
*****
Airfield
“Peregrine, SOL.”
Caliph practically lunged for the controls, securing the comm channel. “SOL, go for Peregrine.”
“Standby for relay,” the communications officer said. “Field team is now in motion.”
“Finally,” Caliph growled, looking over to her RIO. “Call them back. We’re going mobile.”
“You’ve got it, Peregrine.”
The telemetry relay from the team’s armor was up on her HUD a second later, making Caliph stare with wide eyes for a moment at what she was seeing.
“Holy…” she drawled. “SOL, confirm, are they withdrawing under fire?”
“Confirmed. Be aware, enemy combatants have Alliance warp blasters.”
Caliph swore. “Because of course they do.”
Alliance warp blasters were a pain in the ass. They weren’t exactly intended to be anti-air weapons, but they could hum the tune in a pinch. Actually, they weren’t really great at any one aspect of battle, as best she knew, but they were probably the finest multi-purpose weapons she’d ever heard of.
“Roger, SOL. We are aware. Peregrine is standing by to deploy,” she announced.
“Air support will be on the deck in six minutes,” the comms officer told her. “Field team has a potential asset and a prisoner we need intact. Get into position and dust-off with the asset and the prisoner. That is your first priority.”
Caliph scowled. She knew exactly what those orders meant.
“SOL, please confirm. The team is going to be in the APC for dust-off, correct?”
“Ideally, yes. If not, then they can take care of themselves for a while, Peregrine.”
That was pretty much exactly what she expected.
“Roger that, SOL.” She confirmed the orders, swearing mentally the whole time.
“Reactor is firing up,” her RIO said. “The field team is pulling back into the ship.”
“Tell them to buckle up,” Caliph ordered. “We’re going into a hot LZ.”
*****
“Watch the flank to your three o’clock!” Sorilla called, hopping backwards as she tried to stay ahead of the enemy while keeping herself and her team between them and the APC.
Her guns roared, but she had killed the auto-shoot function in her implants just out of concern that the Sentinels would cross her sights and be mistaken for a Tango. She absently noted two of her squad break off to cover the six o’clock position. A small squad of the locals had gotten ahead of them, dug in, and was now peppering the general area with warp blasts.
Sorilla was about to order an assault on the position when a convergence of warp blasts just tore it to shreds. She grimaced as the opposing gravity fields turned men to little more than wet meat flying in all directions, but kept her peace and just nodded to the Lucians who’d launched the attack before moving onto the next.
“Colonel,” Strickland’s voice came over her comm, “air support will be on deck in five minutes.”
Sorilla mentally hit the confirm toggle, keeping her eyes on the fight and her attention split between the actual fighting and the men arrayed around her on the overhead map she had up on her HUD. She was going to have a damn migraine when it was all over, just from keeping her head wrapped around the competing information streams she was dealing with.
Multitasking was a prerequisite before SOLCOM would even think about giving an operator a full implant suite, but there were limits to what any human could manage without suffering consequences. The mother of all migraines was generally the first, and least, of those.
She swore as a fast-moving icon appeared on her HUD, followed by more.
“Enemy have acquired vehicles. Eyes wide and look for fast movers pursuing the APC,” she called. “Kriss, detail your Lucians to eliminate those vehicles!”
“Be advised,” Strickland’s calm voice came over the team comm, “drop ship has lifted off and is en route for dust-off. Priority has been issued to the APC, our prisoner, and the local asset. Anyone not onboard the APC during dust-off will be picked up later.”
The Lucians, on the other hand, might be a problem in that regard.
“Kriss,” she called out, “pickup is coming. Get your people back to the APC.”
The Lucian didn’t seem to pay her any attention, but frankly, she didn’t have time to worry about him either. She’d given him the warning; if he and his were left behind then they’d have to hack it with everyone else.
*****
Atmospheric turbulence shook the A-334 Saddleback drop ship as the pilot fought the motion of the craft while he reached up to adjust the directional thrusters.
Lieutenant Commander Marcus “Viper” Washington noted the altitude and then flipped a bank of switches off to kill the drop ship’s heat shielding. Heavy ceramic plates slid away from the more sensitive instrumentation, as well as the cockpit canopy.
“SOL, Viper.”
“Go for SOL, Viper.”
Washington examined the instruments, making minute adjustments as he spoke. “Viper One has cleared the atmosphere interface. Heat shields are down. Am proceeding to area of operation.”
“Roger, Viper. Realtime updates are being relayed to you now.”
He checked down, noting the IFF codes and icons filling the tactical display. “Roger that. I confirm transmission receipt.”
“Be advised, there are non-coded friendlies in the area of engagement. Say again, non-coded friendlies are in the area of engagement.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
Washington glared over his shoulder where his RIO was sitting behind him, killing the comm. “Shut it, Geoff.” He turned the comm back on. “Roger, SOL. Intelligence received and understood. Will maintain watch for any non-coded friendlies.” He killed the comm, again glaring over his shoulder. “Do not make comments like that over an open line, Geoff. We’re being recorded. If you ever want the cowboy’s seat, you’ll follow protocol.”