Rage of Winter (Terran Strike Marines Book 2)

by Richard Fox

  “No.”

  “Whatever brought that thing down is probably ninety kilos and has a mouth like a wolf.”

  Hoffman didn’t disagree. “Water and nutrient paste. Two minutes. Then we’re moving.”

  The animal cry he’d heard on the wind hadn’t sounded like a predator but something dying badly. He possessed a memory of coyotes killing a brace of rabbits in the night. The sound was hard to identify at first because he hadn’t known rabbits could make a sound. The pain and anguish in the sound had been horrible—a wailing squeal like a thin soul leaving the world.

  Looking out the window into the Phoenix trailer park, he’d seen shadows racing away from the kill—never a complete coyote, just a gray flank, a leg, an emotionless snout smeared with blood. The dying Koen moose bellowed like a tortured cow in the night. Feeding howls from the wolves increased in volume and number.

  “Time’s up. Let’s move,” Hoffman said, realizing Medvedev had shifted between Masha and the sound of the night hunt.

  “Thank you, Medvedev,” she said. “I hate the sound of the pack.”

  King took point. Garrison brought up the rear, his left arm held close to his body and his gauss rifle slung to his right hand.

  “Why do you keep the doughboy?” Masha asked as they moved down a trail.

  “Why do you keep breathing?” Hoffman asked.

  “That’s right,” she said. “You can’t help it. You’re a Hale model. Changed your face, though.”

  “Watch your step. It’s dark and this trail is narrow,” Hoffman said.

  “Two things, LT. It’s creepy how much she knows about us, and two, the wolves are coming,” Garrison said.

  Hoffman ran back up the trail, standing by Garrison as he addressed King over the IR. “Get back up to high ground. The prisoners are the mission. Garrison and I will catch up.”

  “Acknowledged,” King said.

  “I can’t see them yet. They’re half a klick back at least but hauling ass by the sound of all that hyena howling,” Garrison said.

  “Let’s give King a two-hundred-meter lead and follow,” Hoffman said. “I don’t think these things can outflank us on this terrain. Thoughts?”

  “If these wolves are smart enough to flank us, I’m going to freak the hell out,” Garrison said. “I don’t really do animals and wilderness. Or freezing cold darkness.”

  Hoffman shook his head. “Words I never thought I’d hear from a Strike Marine. Garrison, you’re still tracking blood from the moose-thing kill.”

  “I wiped my feet back there!”

  “Let’s move,” Hoffman said. “King, we’re following at two hundred meters.”

  “Acknowledged. Reached the bottom of the switchback. Climbing to high ground now.”

  Hoffman and Garrison rushed down the trail, across a stream, and started to ascend the steep path. When he looked back, Hoffman saw shadow creatures on four legs bounding down the mountainside like nightmares. Moonlight broke through the low, flat clouds and slashed the monsters like harbingers of slaughter.

  “Your man has blood on his feet,” Medvedev muttered.

  “Sue me, traitor. I’m sure it’ll be wiped off by the time we reach Koensuu City,” Garrison said.

  “That’s almost forty kilometers,” Masha said. “At least a day of hiking in the best conditions. Will our battery power last that long, Lieutenant Hoffman?”

  He didn’t answer, but he did check his armor’s diminishing power levels.

  The lieutenant got a good look at the first three wolves as they blasted through the half-frozen stream—shaggy fur that looked heavy enough to turn a blade, spikes behind the ears and down the back, and beaky mouths full of small teeth. The last detail should have been a relief, but thousands of small needles looked like the edge of layered saw blades.

  “Ugly bastards!” Garrison said.

  “King, report.”

  “We’re at the top of the trail. Not great for a pitched battle against combat troops. Might work for natural predators. Can you reach my position?”

  “A little help from a sniper overwatch would be helpful,” Hoffman said as he pushed his legs and his armor hard up a trail that seemed to grow steeper with each step.

  “Medvedev is demanding a weapon to help fight the wolves,” King said.

  “Negative. Tie them up if you have to. The prisoners are the mission. They can’t be allowed to escape.” The howling-screeching sounds of their pursuers sent ice down his spine.

  He reached the top of the trail and motioned Garrison onto the defensive perimeter King had set up—two felled trees dragged across the flanks of the small trail-top clearing. Beyond the flat space was another steep trail barely wide enough for one person to climb at a time.

  “You have a sidearm you cannot use simultaneously with your gauss rifle. Give it to me and I will defend Masha. One less problem for you,” Medvedev yelled at King.

  “Negative, Medvedev,” Hoffman grunted.

  One of the rampaging wolves whimpered as a bullet hit it in the shoulder while stronger members of the pack snarled and bark-screeched.

  “I really hate that sound,” Garrison said, firing one-handed. “Contact.”

  Hoffman searched for a target and saw something blur along the edge of his night vision. “Use infrared.”

  “Not good when targets are moving this fast,” King warned.

  “You can’t leave us tied to a tree!” Masha yelled.

  “Can!” Opal roared as he cranked down the safety cord to hold the prisoners against a tree. “Prisoners stay!”

  “Hoffman, let me fight!” Medvedev shouted.

  Opal rushed to the defensive line of Strike Marines and fired a pistol, the weapon looking like a toy in his huge hand.

  “Got one,” Garrison said.

  “Got two,” King grunted. “They’re getting cautious. Stay alert.”

  Hoffman swept his rifle across his zone as the hunters changed from flashing shadows to circling sharks. Eyes reflected flashes of lightning as they peered around trees, disappeared, and reappeared in new locations. Clouds boiled over the mountain-scape. Starlight and moonlight came and went with the wind-driven clouds.

  “Opal!” King shouted. “Your buddy is loose.”

  The wolves rushed up the mountainside, busting from underbrush and bounding over fallen trees. Hoffman shot one in the mouth as it appeared right in front of him, teeth flashing from its snout-beak.

  “These things can’t be this hungry,” he said as he reloaded and scanned for another threat.

  “They’re territorial,” King said. “And pissed off.”

  Hoffman, King, and Garrison fell back from the perimeter as a wave of snarling killers swarmed their position. Gauss rifles cut them down methodically.

  Medvedev slipped his hands beneath the rope and shimmied the chain between his cuffs against the rope, which disintegrated in seconds. He snapped to his feet, wrists still bound together. He tried to free Masha when a pair of wolves rushed him from behind. He kicked one in the mouth and caught the other by the throat. He swung around and crushed the wolf’s skull against the tree trunk.

  Hoffman did a double take when he realized Medvedev was free. The glint of eyes in the darkness behind the legionnaire promised another attack by the pack.

  King fired, turned, fired, turned, fired, and reloaded. “Defensive perimeter, fall back!”

  Hoffman fired over Medvedev’s shoulder as the Ibarran sidestepped the second Koen wolf’s attack, catching it in his thick arms and using his cuff chains as a garrote. Opal crushed the wolf’s skull with a whack from his pistol and reloaded the weapon. King fell back until he was shoulder to shoulder with Hoffman.

  Garrison struggled to reload with one hand. Slick with blood, injured, exhausted from the pace of the fight—he let the weapon hang for a second and popped his Ka-Bar out from his forearm. He retreated as he worked for a better position. “I really miss Adams right now.”

  Medvedev grabbed Garrison’s rifle by the
barrel and swung it like a club into a wolf as it lunged for Garrison’s leg. The blow snapped the wolf’s neck with a wet crack. Medvedev flipped the rifle in the air and caught it by the grip.

  “Hey, give that back!” Garrison reached for his weapon.

  Medvedev shouldered Garrison and knocked him flat. The legionnaire shot a wolf creeping up behind the Marine. The bullet blew out the back in a glut of blood and fur, striking a second wolf in the leg, severing the limb. The wolf turned and limped away, yipping in pain.

  The howls faded into the forest.

  Garrison rolled to his feet and popped his Ka-Bar out of his forearm sheath.

  “My rifle,” Garrison said, his voice firm and level.

  Medvedev snorted and looked back at Masha and found himself staring into the barrel of Opal’s pistol.

  “Not yours,” the doughboy grunted.

  Medvedev flicked the safety on the gauss rifle and gripped it by the barrel. He held the butt end out to Garrison. The legionnaire’s gaze remained fixed on Opal.

  Garrison snatched his weapon back and Opal lowered his pistol.

  “How’d he get loose, Opal?” Garrison asked.

  Opal’s face flushed, his green and brown complexion fluctuating as the doughboy tried to discern an answer.

  “Temperatures below freezing make the polymers in the rope brittle,” Medvedev said. “Weak against torsion.”

  “I knew that,” Garrison said. “So did Opal. Right, Opal?”

  “Hello?” Masha called out. “Damsel here. Distress is over but being tied to a tree and covered in wolf blood is not helping my composure.”

  “King, give me an ammo count,” Hoffman said as he reloaded his rifle. “Opal, get the other prisoner loose.”

  The lieutenant squared off against Medvedev.

  “Opal’s programmed to kill you if you threaten the team,” he said. “You touch another one of our weapons again and it won’t end well for you.”

  “You keep her safe,” the legionnaire tilted his head toward Masha, “and I won’t have to do your job for you.”

  “Sir,” King said, “weather’s starting to get worse. I think I saw a cave while we were killing the local wildlife. Shall we investigate?”

  “Lead the way,” Hoffman said as Medvedev helped Masha off the ground and brushed snow off her suit.

  Chapter 6

  The wall didn’t enclose the outlying city and wasn’t well-positioned for the rigors of modern battle. The Planetary Defense Forces had augmented it as best they could and continued to improve it in the face of the new threat. Duke climbed down the steep bunker stairs with Booker right behind him, his gear feeling heavier than normal. Adrenaline could only last so long and he’d lost a good bit of blood from his wounds.

  “Tight quarters in here,” Booker said in a low voice just for Duke. “Another great reason to be a Strike Marine instead of pulling garrison duty.”

  “Agreed. The sooner we’re out doing our job, the better. We need to avoid getting pulled into grunt work before Hoffman gets back,” Duke said.

  “We should have heard from him by now.”

  “The lieutenant’s solid. He’s got the rest of the team to watch out for him, including Opal, who’s about as fanatically loyal as it’s possible to be,” Duke said.

  “Masha’s dangerous. We should be there.”

  Duke studied young PDF soldiers as he made his way down the narrow, low hallway. Stairs went up and stairs went down, depending on the contour of the wall foundation around them. Leaning toward Booker’s ear as they turned a sharp corner, he whispered, “None of these kids have been in a fight.”

  Booker nodded. “Sergeants look frosty.”

  “This way, sir,” a non-com said. Nearly middle-aged, the man had battle scars on the side of his neck.

  Duke followed the sergeant to a briefing room with maps and computer screens.

  “Captain Pine,” the sergeant said, pointing Duke toward an officer consulting with junior officers. “He’ll tell you where and when to die.”

  “I thought that was what sergeants were for?” Duke asked.

  The sergeant shook his head. “Nope. I just tell you to stop whining and do it.”

  Duke saluted and presented himself to Pine. “Sergeant Duke, Strike Marine sniper. This is Sergeant Madilyn Booker, medic. I’m cross-training her now.”

  The young captain stared. “General Allan didn’t tell me we had Strike Marines on the planet.”

  “We’re on a priority mission, supposed to be hush-hush, but there was some shooting and I forgot to duck. My team leader’s outside the city, finishing our mission, but we’re looking for something constructive to do.”

  “Details of your mission?” Pine asked.

  “Need to know, sir,” Duke said. “Sorry. But nothing related to the Kesaht.”

  Pine studied him, then took a good look at Booker. His attention lingered on her more than Duke liked.

  “Info would be helpful,” Duke said, spitting into a corner. “But if you don’t have it, we’ll just go outside and start killing shit.”

  Captain Pine waved them closer to the map table. “All right, Strike Marines, this is the situation. Kesaht have landed here, here, and here. Our fleet is engaging them in void combat but are just as outnumbered up there as we are on the surface. Expect more landings to occur over the next few days.” He paused. “Our fleet’s holding their own...for now. It’s tight, probably going to get tighter. But at least we can keep the Kesaht from slagging Koensuu City like they did Pohja Base.”

  “What about ground forces? Do they have a beachhead?” Duke asked.

  “Yes and no. The Kesaht use different tactics and strange timelines, compared to what we’re accustomed to seeing. They landed outside the city almost at random. On the sides of mountains, in thick forests. They’re moving on the city piecemeal, not organized like Vishrakath or Naroosha assaults,” Pine said. “None of the precision of a Xaros attack.”

  “You fought in the Ember War?” Booker asked.

  Captain Pine cleared his throat and moved icons around on the map table. “We studied it in the academy. Shall we continue?”

  Duke and Booker nodded, expressions blank.

  “Our garrison is well trained and equipped. We pushed them back after the initial assault but lost contact with outlying cities Yeansuu, Brona, and Haegs—all sites built on or near ancient cities. Our outlying towns have seen some fighting, but the Kesaht are pushing hard on the city. General Allan wants us to hold the Kesaht as far back as we can. If they get their artillery in range, it won’t go well for the civilians. The Kesaht aren’t brilliant. We’ve enveloped and subdivided their lead elements. It’s still a bit touchy beyond this perimeter. Lots of meeting engagements. Sudden ambushes.”

  Duke continued to listen without commenting. He understood where the briefing was heading and what would be asked of him.

  “You need reconnaissance,” Duke said. “Which is half of what being a Strike Marine sniper is all about.”

  “The other half?” Pine asked.

  “Gauss bullets through foreheads.” Duke jerked a thumb at Buffy, his sniper rifle.

  “Less good news,” Captain Pine continued for Duke and the junior officers also standing by. “The Crucible is damaged. The other gate within jump range is on Malmo, which is also under attack. We’re not expecting reinforcements any time soon.”

  Booker swallowed hard.

  “On the upside, the Kesaht won’t be getting reinforcements any sooner than we will, which is good news, since they already outnumber us ten to one.” Pine said. He faced Duke. “I could use your help with reconnaissance. Identify routes the enemy are taking into the city. The isthmus is two miles wide, easy to monitor even with most of our strength dedicated to defensive lines. There are a lot of places we can harass the Kesaht before they get that far. I want them bled white before the main battle.”

  “What about comms?” Duke asked.

  “That far out, radio comms are
inconsistent at best. Too unreliable to trust. The IR relays are as bulletproof as always. Fiber-optic lines still function. I’ll require you to report back using the relays. Are you up for a little side mission?”

  Duke checked with Booker, then smirked. “You have any carrier pigeons?”

  “Ha ha,” Captain Pine said. “We’ll have a Mule drop you in the Teunsaa Valley. Got reports of enemy troop buildup in that area before we lost our satellites.”

  ****

  Red lights flashed along the walls of the bunker as alert tones sounded on the public-address system. PDF soldiers hustled to battle stations, up ladders and stairs or to gun ports. The powerful thumping of flak turrets firing from the surface resonated through the underground tunnels.

  “We may have found the main event,” Booker said.

  Duke nodded, grabbed his gear, and headed for the stairs as the pace of defensive gunfire increased. “Move. Out of my way. Strike Marine coming through.”

  “Sorry about my friend. He hasn’t killed anyone in hours. Excuse us. Pardon me,” Booker said, hurrying through the narrow space behind Duke.

  He emerged aboveground and ran onto the wall.

  “Duke!” Booker yelled.

  He turned in time to see a Kesaht lander burst into flames, pieces of its short wings flying apart as it dove at them—intentionally or unintentionally, it was hard to say. Duke squatted almost to the ground and threw his right arm up to protect his head while his left held the bulk of his gear over his shoulder on a heavy strap. Heat singed the surface of his lightweight sniper armor.

  The Kesaht pilot fought for altitude, pulling up right before impact. The burning, broken craft hit the ground hard, remaining mostly intact. The side doors exploded outward as though fired from an explosive charge. Rakka shock troops swarmed forward with crude firearms, wicked bayonets, and bone-handled pole arms.

  Duke drew his carbine at the same time Booker drew hers.

  “Isn’t that sweet,” she said, shooting the first Rakka in the face as he outran his feet in his enthusiasm to attack her. “He wants to eat me.”