Rage of Winter (Terran Strike Marines Book 2)

by Richard Fox

  “This isn’t necessary. Haven’t you figured out by now the Kesaht are here to kill all of us?” Masha asked.

  “I don’t see your point. What could one spy do to stop an invasion? Even if I trusted you to fight on our side, urban combat isn’t in your wheelhouse,” King said and then indicated the police officer. “This fine gentleman and his friends will keep you safe until we can arrange proper transport.”

  “Or you could just take my word we won’t try to escape,” Masha said. She leaned forward to see the officer’s name plate. “I’m sure Officer Stevens could keep an eye on me while I have a hot cup of Izara cocoa in the cafeteria.”

  King blocked her movement toward the cop. “Got cuffs?”

  The young cop swallowed, reached behind his back, and came forward with two pairs of old-style handcuffs, which King snapped on to each of his prisoners. A pair of cops then placed the Ibarrans in adjacent cells facing the booking area.

  King high-fived Garrison.

  “She’s the best-looking mission target I’ve ever seen, but I’m glad we’re done with her. I wonder if we get extra leave due to the hardships she caused us,” Garrison said, unfastening his armor with a sigh of relief.

  “Don’t hold your breath. I’ve got a call for transport back to the front.” As King removed his helmet and armor from the waist up, sweat squished out of his pseudo-muscle layer. “You guys have any hot chow around while we wait on our ride? Don’t mind if it’s room temperature white bread and bologna.”

  “Sure thing. Let me check my Ubi to see what’s on the menu.”

  King’s mouth started to water.

  “You guys know the sniper? The one they call ‘Ice Claw’? He really scares the piss out of the Kesaht. Sure wish we had a whole battalion of Strike Marines like you down here.”

  The young cop kept talking and talking until King grew bored. Garrison rolled his eyes in annoyance as King looked behind the booking desk, noticing a distinct lack of clerical staff.

  Two police officers entered through a door marked “vehicle bay.” They seemed to have just left their patrol duties because they were fully armed and wearing ballistic vests.

  Four officers from the detention area walked into the room. Three additional officers stepped out of the locker room, strapping on gun belts without a word.

  “Well, this sucks,” King said, reaching for his weapon. “Garrison…”

  “Ez itzazu hil. Baina minik egin ditzakezu,” Masha said.

  “Well, answer her, big guy,” Garrison said to the bodyguard, leaning one elbow on the booking desk near Medvedev.

  Masha’s expression turned to ice. “I wasn’t talking to him.”

  The young cop, the one who had looked wet behind the ears and about as dangerous as a choir boy two seconds ago, smoothly drew a weapon from his belt opposite his sidearm. For a moment, King thought it was a second pistol.

  Garrison stepped back and threw up his left hand defensively, still holding his gauss rifle on its sling with his right hand but pointed at the floor. “What the hell are you doing?”

  King felt cool metal against the back of his neck and pain lanced down his back as a taser arced electricity through his body. He heard a crackle as the ground rushed toward his face. Pain blossomed from the bridge of his nose as he went into convulsions, unable to blink voluntarily.

  Garrison fell beside him, electrodes with dangling wires embedded in his cheek.

  The two biggest guards grabbed Garrison by his heels and dragged him roughly across the floor. The tasers had fired tiny flechettes that embedded in his skin to link wires to the device. Electric current coursed between the two connection points. One of the flesh hooks came loose as they dragged him and the circuit was broken.

  Garrison immediately twisted like a wrestler, grabbing one of them by the wrist. At the same time, he kicked the other away with his feet, taking out a knee.

  The angelic-faced kid-cop attached a fresh cartridge to his taser and fired again.

  King, able to see but unable to act, felt sorry for Garrison as electrodes bit into his forehead. Garrison went down with a spasming groan through gritted teeth.

  A pair of cops yanked the battery packs on Garrison’s armor, slapped a muzzle across his mouth and chin, then cuffed his hands behind his back with practiced efficiency. They dragged him into Masha’s cell and dumped him in a puddle. King was disabled and restrained the same way and then dropped unceremoniously against the bars, his body still twitching.

  Masha ran her fingers down King’s face as his cheeks ticked with the last of the taser assault. The spy rolled her palm over with a bit of sleight of hand and a thin metal disc, held between two fingers, glowed dimly.

  “We did find artifacts here,” she said. “But when we realized that you devil dogs had our scent, we stashed it in our mountain cache site with the intent to send locals to pick this up after Medvedev and I had made it off world. Thank you so much for taking us back to pick it up.” She tapped King on the nose. “And thank you extra for doing a less than thorough inspection of where I had to pee in that cave. This little gem was hidden in a fake rock.”

  She patted him on the cheek twice and made the third touch almost as hard as a slap. Then, with pistol in hand, she pushed Garrison down on his back and straddled him. She thrust the muzzle under his chin. “How long have you been chasing me?”

  “Mrrrumnmrrm…” Garrison said through his gag.

  Masha twisted the pistol barrel deeper into the soft tissue under his jaw. “I see. I also see that the geo-political events may change your next assignment. Seems to me that if I kill you two, it’ll be personal between me and your hunky lieutenant. So I’ll let you two live. You tell the lieutenant he gets this close to me again, he’ll be too competent for me not to kill. Oh, and thanks for the escort back to the city.”

  Garrison mumbled as Masha kissed him on the forehead.

  King glared at Garrison.

  Garrison shrugged. “Mrrrummerrrmsnns.”

  Masha strutted out of the room. Medvedev stripped King of his weapons and unsnapped the gauntlets off his forearms. He slipped the gauntlet with the Ka-Bar over his hand and flexed his fingers in the glove.

  “You’d steal a Marine’s blade?” King asked.

  “And your rifle.” Medvedev hefted King’s gauss rifle and gave it a quick pat.

  “We have a shuttle to catch, my strong bear,” Masha said, already striding toward the front door.

  Medvedev gave King a nod, then followed her out the door.

  The clean-cut kid checked the locks. “Sorry about this. I really am a huge fan. This is for the greater good. Someday we’ll all laugh and drink a beer over it.” He made a fist, held it to his heart. “For the Lady!”

  Garrison grunted out expletives as best he could through the gag. King rapped the back of his head against the bars, wondering just how he’d explain all this to Lieutenant Hoffman.

  Chapter 23

  “Duke for Hoffman, we’re in position,” Duke said. “Any word on our next move?”

  “Hold and update me with real-time info. I’m checking something here. Might be a good route to the police station.” Hoffman’s voice echoed in the scratchy, half-scrambled IR radio.

  Duke popped a stim tab and put in a dip.

  “Do you think that’s safe?” Booker asked. “Adding nicotine to combat meds?”

  Duke rolled back to his rifle and snuggled up behind the scope. Flattening himself to the ground, he spread his feet wide and turned his toes outward for greater stability. Booker sighed in resignation, then imitated his pose.

  “How do you spit that stuff while you’re lying on your stomach?”

  “Spit or swallow, depends.”

  “Disgusting.”

  “That’s why you’ll never be a great sniper. You might be good, but never a master,” Duke said.

  “That’s such bullshit,” she said. “If anything, it probably jacks up your heart rate and increases your ocular nystagmus.”


  “Can’t outshoot me, so you’re going to bore me to death with science,” Duke said.

  “I’ll show you how I can shoot.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ll put my next shot right between the eyes.”

  “You’ve always been obsessed with that shot. Not necessary in combat. Hostage rescue? Sure. Out here, throat, lungs, or pelvis disable the enemy just fine.”

  “No shit,” she said as her fatigue started to show. “All I’m saying is chewing tobacco doesn’t make you a better sniper. And if I wanted to dip, I’d dip. What’s the big deal?”

  He turned his eyes on her, barely moving his head. “All right.” He snaked his arm down the side of his body to a utility pocket. “You have to move slow, keep your arm close to your centerline. Avoid showing movement to the enemy. Retrieve the can. Move it near your helmet but go slow. Savor the moment. Wait for the reward.”

  “This isn’t happening,” she said.

  “Open the can. Don’t spill. This stuff is worth more than your life right now. You can’t pack it without violently snapping your wrist—so plan ahead. Do that part before you slip into your hiding place. Or just give it a few gentle taps. Gentle movements. Peace, love, and harmony with the planet so the enemy won’t see you trying to kill them.”

  “This isn’t necessary.”

  “Savor the moment, my young apprentice. Open, pinch, pack the dip into your lower lip—unless you’ve got bleeding, then move to your upper lip—which actually makes it easier to spit while lying prone,” Duke said.

  Booker shook her head slowly, rolled her eyes, and exhaled in defiant frustration. She took the can, tapped it, pinched a tiny portion of tobacco, and slipped it in between her lower lip and gums. Her eyes went wide, then squished shut as her face wrinkled in horror. “Soooo disgusting, blehh.”

  Duke held the open can near her face. “Don’t waste it. Put it back. Five-second rule.”

  Booker covered her mouth with one hand, fighting the urge to vomit.

  “Back in the can, Booker. I can’t exactly run down to the PX for resupply.”

  She closed her eyes, pushing her forehead to the ground.

  “Booker?” Duke asked, an edge in his voice.

  “I swallowed it when you put that can in my face,” she said. “I hate you.”

  “Rule number one. Don’t waste dip. Fail.”

  “It burns.”

  “You’d get used to it if you were a real sniper.”

  “Good thing I’m a medic.”

  “Fail. Complete fail.”

  “Little dizzy.”

  Duke chuckled.

  “Gonna puke.”

  “No, you’re not.” He went back to searching for Sanheel officers and troop movements.

  Booker recovered, took the can, and put in another dip. “Momma didn’t raise a quitter.”

  “I admire your spirit, Doc. But when you stand up, you’ll be dizzy. Plan for it,” Duke said.

  “This is so disgusting.”

  Duke gave a short whistle to silence her. “There’s that big, peg-legged Sanheel bastard from earlier,” he said.

  “Are you sure?” Booker asked. “Not really a peg leg. Decent prosthetic from what I’ve seen of their tech level.”

  “That guy has to be something special in their officer corps. He just won’t die. Until now,” Duke said. He emptied his lungs and settled every part of his body against the ground, then drew the trigger back to its breaking point and held it.

  “Wait. I think this is a bad shot,” Booker said.

  Duke broke the trigger tension in one smooth motion, drawing it straight back through the trigger housing. The weapon thumped against his shoulder. The gauss round went exactly where he wanted it.

  The Sanheel, somehow bigger and more menacing than all the others despite its prosthetic front leg, continued to pace back and forth like a good target.

  “What…the…actual…” Duke raised his head a fraction of an inch as though it would allow him to see better. “Sons a bitches! You clever assholes.”

  Booker didn’t move. “Hologram.”

  “Not. Good.”

  “I bet you’re glad Hoffman isn’t here to see this.” Her voice went up half an octave. “Oh shit! Artillery!”

  “It’ll go in my report,” Duke grunted, searching through his optics for the real target.

  “You’re not worried about getting shelled?”

  “Of course I’m worried. Let’s collapse back to the boss and the dummy before they drop an artillery barrage on us,” Duke said.

  “I’ll lead,” she said.

  “Smooth is fast. Don’t draw attention…”

  Booker didn’t wait for the lesson. Moving slowly to avoid attracting the eye of enemy countersnipers, she backed away from the edge of the rooftop, pausing to pull her weapon after her every few inches.

  Duke held his position. There were plenty of targets now, all of them looking for the Ice Claw or however they said it in their language. Squads of Rakka rushed from building to building and destroyed vehicle to destroyed vehicle as others covered them. He saw several Sanheel and at least one Ixio searching the area with oversized binoculars. They stayed behind cover, barely exposing their heads as they looked for him.

  “They’re across the isthmus, entering the outer ring of the city. This is about to get real if we don’t do something,” Duke said.

  “Set,” Booker said from the threshold of the service door behind and to one side of him. She aimed her rifle. “Covering.”

  “Moving.” Duke slipped backward like a snake, his movements smoother and more practiced than Booker’s but essentially the same. Once he had retreated ten meters, he took a knee, closed all the ports on his rifle, slipped a field sheath over it, and slung it across his back. Seconds later, he pulled the sling of his short patrol carbine to the front and looked through the sights.

  Booker swept her sights right to left, then left to right, both hands on her patrol rifle, her elbows tucked in tight to create a more stable shooting platform.

  “This should cheer you up. Boost your growing ego,” she said. “Tanks. Headed our way.”

  Duke saw one armored vehicle after another emerge from the wooded area on the north side of the isthmus. The war machines were vaguely like old Terran versions. The enormous armored vehicles had one track down the middle with bulbous pontoon skis off each side for balance.

  Booker snorted. “I know they’re dangerous, but it’s hard to get worked up after seeing our Armor Corps fight.”

  The first tank turned with surprising agility, elevating its main gun as it continued to move. Four others followed, vibrating the snow on the ground around them. Duke wondered if they could fire while moving as he recorded details through his helmet microphone. “Kesaht armor. Five big guns in the forward echelon with two companies of light infantry in close support. Unknown if these vehicles are operated by Rakka or Ixio.” He paused. “Tanks are some big sons of bitches…doubt the skinnies would get in them.”

  The five tanks veered to the left, smashing through snowdrifts and shattered buildings on the fringes of Koensuu City. A second tank platoon emerged from the same tree line and shifted to the right. When both squadrons were a kilometer from Duke’s position, they reduced speed and approached methodically.

  “They’re looking for you, Ice Claw,” Booker said.

  “If you’re trying to get under my skin, it isn’t working.”

  Booker huffed and recorded her own report.

  A third group of tanks arrived.

  “Duke for Hoffman. We have fifteen tanks with a lot of infantry following behind. Looks like a ‘sweep and clear’ mission,” Duke said. “I think they may be arriving at your bridge uncomfortably soon.”

  “Received,” Hoffman said, the IR comm link crackling with interference. “Get prepped to move. This bridge isn’t high enough to blow. No water in the canal to slow them. Snowdrifts could be two inches deep for all I know.”

  “Unfortuna
te,” Duke said. “I like blowing bridges.”

  “So I hear,” Hoffman said. “Plotting our next move. Do you have additional high-value targets?”

  Booker stared at the advancing tanks and infantry units. “They really don’t like you.”

  Duke finished his notes, then radioed Hoffman. “I don’t like any of these targets. Recommend we work our way back to HQ.”

  “Once bitten, twice shy,” Booker said just loud enough for Duke to hear.

  “Received and understood,” Hoffman said. “Holding strongpoints at the bridge abutment. Rally on my position for exfiltration.”

  “I heard that, Booker,” Duke said, then keyed his mic. “On our way.”

  Duke and Booker descended an external stairway on the back of the building. He thought it might have been a fire escape if not for the ornate railings. On the ground, they moved through the alley and down the street to join Hoffman and Opal.

  “I’ll be honest, sir. If we wait for this battlefield to stabilize, there’ll never be a good time to transport the targets off planet,” Duke said.

  “I don’t see a clear way downtown to the police station. This mission gets more complicated every time I see you,” Hoffman said.

  “I started helping the PDF while you were stomping through mountain ruins. This is war. Only going to get worse.”

  “We have to survive to complete the mission. King and Garrison have our precious cargo locked down,” Hoffman said. “The PDF are trying to envelop a force five times their size and pick them apart with guerrilla raids in combination with decisive battle tactics. I wonder who put the first idea in their heads.”

  “What did you want me to do while you were off hiking the scenic highways and byways of the Koen Mountains? Some of us work for a living,” Duke said.

  “I don’t disagree. This is full-scale invasion war.” Hoffman paused. “Defeating it is more than our team can handle.”

  Duke patted his vest, didn’t find what he was looking for. “Can’t take our precious cargo into orbit with Kesaht in control of the ground, air—and space, for all we know.”

  “You can’t win the war all by yourself, Duke,” Hoffman said.