Precursor Revenants (The Precursor Series Book 1)

by Cain Hopwood

  They were in.

  — 25 —

  Colonel Whitfield looked over his tactical operations center, and allowed himself a small smile. It was all rather makeshift, but still better than many places he’d used as a forward operating base before. He had five tactical consoles, more than enough to run two simultaneous operations. Calling them consoles was stretching the term though. They were just panels of flexi on tables, very low tech.

  The briefing room — which doubled as his office — was another story though. It was off to one side of the operations center. Where it would have had walls, it had variable fields projected instead. With the flick of a control nub, he could switch the walls from transparent to opaque, and as solid, or soundproof as he needed. Currently, they looked like smoky glass, though he could still hear everything going on in the main room.

  He had two current reconnaissance operations going, so there was a healthy amount of noise outside. Both Gritz and Moss had their squads in the field, feeding images and observations back to the console operators. The operators then routed relevant snippets to another console at the back of the room, where a translator worked with two of Shaiken’s analysts to categorize and evaluate the intelligence.

  The analysts were yet another Galactic caste. They were spindly, multi-armed, bipedal and about two and half meters tall. They were surrounded by the haze of a heavy clima-field, not being able to function at all in the twenty-two degrees Celsius standard environment humans found comfortable.

  The analysts were not great conversationalists, but they had an eidetic memory reminiscent of a high functioning autistic. When they were first brought into the operation center, they didn’t seem to even be alive. But, as soon as the pictures of various Marbelite leaders started scrolling across the flexi consoles, they became quite animated. Waving their spindly arms around, and chattering at a frantic rate; causing the usually unflappable translators, some distress.

  They seemed calm now, the colonel thought as he looked across the room at the two crowded over the rearmost console. Handy, especially considering the admiral was due to arrive shortly.

  Satisfied that the operations center was as ready as it could be for a visitor, the colonel sat down at the conference table, and set it up to display feeds from both Gritz and Moss’s squads.

  Several minutes later, Admiral Katona strode into the operations center. He took a quick look around, then made a bee line towards the briefing room, his ever present translator struggling to stay close.

  “Fair watch to you colonel.”

  “And to you admiral, does our operations center meet with your approval.”

  “It does, though why you’ve placed it here at the very edge of the camp is beyond me. Surely there were plenty of suitable structures closer to the center.”

  The colonel paused for a moment. “Indeed there were. I left the decision to my lieutenants and didn’t think to question why. I’m sure they had a good reason.”

  “No doubt they did. Now, to business. I have heard your current missions are already seeing some good results.”

  “Both reconnaissance squads are in place, they’ve established observation posts, and don’t appear to have been detected. That’s not what I’d call a result in and of itself though.”

  “Do not be harsh on yourself colonel, if you had known how many times I have tried this and failed, you would not think so lightly of the achievement.”

  “Good point admiral,” Colonel Whitfield said. “But, are you getting any useful intel from them?”

  “That is why I am here,” Katona said. He opened his eyes startlingly wide, the Ka-Li equivalent of a smile. “The analysts have reported that there are already several high ranking clan chiefs at one of your sites.”

  “Which site?”

  Katona glanced at the tabletop and then pointed at the feed from Gritz’s spotter. “That one.”

  Gritz’s squad was surveilling a large redoubt, precariously clinging to an outcrop halfway up a mountainside. It would have held a commanding position over the surroundings, back before the locals invented gunpowder.

  “That particular installation has caused us no end of trouble,” the admiral said. “It has been a focal point for rebellion for decades. The centarch has threatened to wipe it from the map on numerous occasions.”

  “Why hasn’t he?” asked the colonel.

  “Each time he has considered that course of action, his analysts talked him down. Despite the years spent studying this race, they cannot state definitively whether destroying the great fort — as the Marbelites call it — will scatter them, or unite them in rage.”

  The colonel paused. When he’d asked the admiral’s staff for two surveillance targets for a preliminary reconnaissance mission, he hadn’t imagined that one of them would be such a key location. For just a moment he wished that it was Moss observing the redoubt, and Gritz at the farmhouse.

  “I didn’t realize this location was so sensitive. I’m surprised your staff suggested it.”

  “My staff?” Katona blew a staccato gust of breath out of his eye slits. “They wanted to ease you into operations. They are afraid you will show them up. Fortunately I discovered their rather disappointing choices in time, and mandated this be one of your targets. We don’t have the time to pad around like a hatchling.”

  “Wasn’t that a little impatient?”

  “Maybe, but I am eager to see what your troops are capable of. I have been pleasantly surprised so far.”

  Before the colonel could respond, a furious chittering arose from the analysts at the back of the operation center. The admiral’s head snapped around, and he addressed them in the same language. They had a brief exchange, then he turned back to the colonel.

  “Are those images real time?” he asked, pointing at Moss’s feed of the farmhouse, where several Marbelites were alighting from a flyer.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good. This Marbelite is a priority target,” the admiral said. He stabbed a finger down on the table, over the top of one of the Marbelites.

  For just a moment, the colonel’s political senses tingled. Was this some kind of test? But before that train of thought could develop, he shut it down. It didn’t matter what the reason, what was important was how quickly they responded.

  He keyed the comms. “Operations to Moss.”

  While the lieutenant was responding, he marked the Marbelite with a follow glyph, and shared it down the combat tac-link. It would appear in Moss’s HUD.

  Moss’s reply was quick. “Go ahead.”

  “I’m designating a target. Stand by for a kill order.”

  “Copy. Confirm target.”

  A second glyph appeared over the unsuspecting Marbelite, placed there by Moss.

  “Confirming target,” said the colonel.

  He waited, listening to the comms chatter for an indication that Murdoch was ready. Given they were only supposed to be observing the farmhouse, they hadn’t setup for precision sharpshooting. The range wasn’t extreme, but even so, Murdoch wanted to use his Barrett; the ARX-70s they each carried were still a bit problematic at ranges over a kilometer in the heavier Marbel gravity.

  The exchange between the two men as they debated what to do only took a few seconds, and they compromised on Murdoch setting up the shot with his ARX-70, while Moss unpacked the Barrett. Colonel Whitfield waited until Moss’s scope cam, now in Murdoch’s hands, zeroed on the Marbelite.

  He turned to the admiral. “My men are ready. What do you want them to do?”

  “Eliminate the target,” the admiral said without a moments hesitation.

  The colonel keyed the tac-link open. “Take the shot.”

  “Copy sir,” came Murdoch’s drawl. “This shot is at the edge of what the ARX-70 can do. As long as this guy hangs around outside a little longer, we might be able to get a proper rifle on him.”

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” said Moss. “If this damn thing was standard, I’d have had it in one piec
e by now.”

  “He’s on the move,” said Murdoch.

  The scope cam started tracking left. The three Marbelites had finished unpacking the flyer, and were making their way towards the building; the one targeted by the admiral in the lead.

  “You’ve only got a couple of seconds, take the shot,” said the colonel.

  Murdoch didn’t reply, but the scope cam showed them everything they needed to know. He led the target until the doorway came into view. Then the image stabilized, the crosshairs centered in the middle of the doorway. A moment later the Marbelite appeared, and the camera jerked as Murdoch took the shot.

  — 26 —

  The shot rang out like a whip crack. It wasn’t the usual throaty roar of Murdoch’s Barrett, which Jon had just finished assembling, but still loud in the confines of the hide.

  Skip had been acting as spotter. “It’s a hit, headshot I think. He’s gone down.”

  “Crap, I wasn’t going for a headshot. And they’re all over him, I can’t get a clean second shot.”

  “What are they doing now?” Skip asked.

  Jon looked up, passed the assembled Barrett to Murdoch and took his ARX-70 back. The Marbelites were standing in front of their fallen chief holding their arms up and looking for all the world like they were checking the time on watches.

  “Hand held shields,” Jon said. “Even your Barrett will have trouble punching through those from here.”

  Two more Marbelites stormed out of the building and headed straight toward them.

  “Skip, get ready to withdraw. We’ll try to slow them down,” Jon said, shouldering his ARX-70.

  “There’s only two of them,” Murdoch said. “Once they’re close, those shields won’t make much of a difference.”

  “True, but I’d rather be ready. Plus, who knows how many more of them are inside.”

  But, before Skip could get his kit together, the two rushing natives shuddered to a halt. Their chief was moving, and the two protecting him were yelling and beckoning them back.

  They backed up, then once they were crouched behind the other’s shields, helped their chief. In just a couple of seconds they had him bundled into the flyer and had lifted off. The others followed in a second flyer.

  Jon tapped a canine to open comms. “Sorry sir, it looks like Murdoch only winged him.”

  “Understood. It looked clean from here, but the round lifted. We’ve just reviewed the footage; Skip was right, the target took it in the head.”

  “Copy that. It was a stretch for an ARX-70, even in ideal conditions. What are your orders?”

  “Prepare to bug out. We’ll send a…”

  Jon waited for a few seconds. Murdoch raised his eyebrows. Then the colonel resumed.

  “A situation is developing. Standby for extraction. Operations out.”

  “What’s that all about?” Murdoch asked.

  “The usual,” Skip replied. “Hurry up and wait.”

  “Sure, but what if that lot come at us again?”

  “We shoot them,” Jon said. “In the meantime, get ready to move. I’ll keep an eye out.”

  Murdoch and Skip jumped to it. Fortunately they didn’t have much to do to get moving. They only had to don their packs, and collect the ammo and grenades they’d stacked for quick access. The last thing they’d tear down would be the camouflage shelter. A button press would retract the pole and deflate the supports, allowing it to retract back into its soda can sized container.

  With his men ready to go, Jon shouldered his pack. The snow was deep, so they’d need to ski out to get to the extraction point. Skip had clipped in, and was using his skis to pack down the snow built up behind the shelter.

  He took one last look down into the valley; there was no movement from the small group of buildings. He gave a nod to Skip, and retracted the shelter. Snow billowed as the fabric supporting the dome snapped back into its enclosure. They moved off, using the flurry as cover.

  Ten minutes later Jon, Murdoch and Skip slid to a stop at the designated extraction point. It was a couple of clicks down hill from the hide, and they’d been skiing fast.

  “No sign of pursuit on overwatch,” Skip said.

  “Have the flyers moved?” Jon asked.

  “No. It looks like they’ve hunkered down.”

  “Okay get me comms, I want to know when the extraction team is due. We’re sticking out like dog’s balls in this terrain.”

  “Copy that.”

  Skip launched a comms drone to get line of sight to a hilltop relay. Moments later a glyph glowed in the corner of Jon’s vision.

  He double tapped comms open. “Moss to operations.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’re at the primary extraction point. What’s the ETA of the extraction team?”

  “Standby. There’s a local situation developing. Extractions are on hold.”

  “On hold?” Jon grimaced, then looked around. In the bottom of a low valley they were as exposed as it was possible to be.

  He turned to Murdoch and Skip. “Looks like we’re on our own for the moment, any suggestions?”

  “Well sir,” drawled Murdoch. “We don’t want to stay here. I’d go up, get amongst those rocks on that ridge. We can always ski back down here quick enough.”

  “Better comms from there too,” Skip added. “Overwatch drones are handy, but they can also be a giveaway.”

  “Agreed, let’s get to it.”

  They released the heels on their bindings and worked their way up the ridge. It was easy enough initially, but three quarters of the way up the pitch got steeper, and rocky outcrops protruded from the snow cover. It was hard going, picking their way through the rocks, but at least the uneven ground provided them with a modicum of cover.

  Jon stopped a short way from the top. “These boulders will do.” He pointed at the top of the ridge. “Skip, get me eyes on the other side, just to be sure.”

  “On it, sir.”

  “Moss to operations.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’re standing by in good cover a short distance from the extraction point.”

  “Copy Moss. We’ll have orders for you shortly. Operations out.”

  Jon frowned, given that only he and Gritz were in the field, he’d have expected a little more chatter from the operator. They weren’t usually so curt, something was up.

  He tossed the shelter can to Murdoch. “Find a spot to set this up. We might be here a while.”

  — 27 —

  The only sign that Colonel Whitfield felt like tearing someone’s head off, was an occasional twitch in the side of his face as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. As much as he yearned to yell at the Galactics, it wouldn’t achieve anything. Worse, it would unsettle his men, and he needed them calm and fully functional.

  Admiral Katona was chattering at high speed into his com pod. Even though the colonel had been cramming Galingua for a couple of months now, he was still only getting the occasional word. None of which were encouraging.

  The problems had started moments after the botched assassination attempt. Gritz had reported large numbers of flyers erupting from the redoubt. Most had arrowed off to the south, but several stayed in the immediate area.

  It hadn’t taken them long to spot Gritz and his squad.

  The firefight had been furious and short. Gritz’s secondary observation post had been wiped out in short order. Only Gritz and two others from his main post were still alive, taken as captives.

  At least they had been alive when the flyer they were in disappeared into the redoubt’s hangar, and comms failed. God only knew what was happening to them now.

  The admiral clicked his com pod off and turned to the colonel. “Colonel, I regret to inform you that the centarch has ordered all air operations over the northern half of the continent suspended.”

  “I thought you controlled all air and space in this system?”

  “We do, or I should say we did. This group of clansmen have declared themselve
s independent from the planet’s governing body.”

  “Doesn’t that happen regularly here?”

  “It does, but this time is different.” The admiral tapped the table. “Do you have a map?”

  “Of course.” With a couple of taps the colonel brought up a continental map on the tabletop. The admiral’s base of operations was near the planetary capital, which was on a large peninsular at the southern end of the main landmass.

  The clans nearest the capital, in the fertile lowlands, were generally well disposed to the Galactics. But the northern highland clans, where Jon and Gritz had been operating, were a lot more troublesome.

  The admiral drew a line on the map. “This alliance of clans has declared themselves to be an independent government. They have claimed everything north of this line, and are enforcing a no fly zone.”

  “How can a group of clansmen enforce a no fly zone?”

  “They have tried this before. In the past we have considered them of no consequence. But, this time is different. This time they have support.”

  “How so?”

  “The flyers your soldiers recorded are not of local manufacture. In fact, they are not flyers as such, but a mixture of sting ships and assault shuttles. They looked to be Gaudin hulls.”

  The colonel hadn’t managed to absorb a lot of detail on the other high level Galactic conclaves. But what he did remember, was that the Gaudin ships and gear were top-grade; and too expensive for the centarch.

  “Do you know who’s supplying them?”

  “No. But the centarch is more worried about why. He’s concerned it could be a trap.”

  The colonel rolled his eyes. “Great, so it’s a mix of local and conclave politics. He doesn’t want to poke the bear, just in case.”

  “I don’t know what this bear is that you refer to,” said the admiral. “But yes, you are correct that he is being cautious. Until the centarch knows more about the situation, we honor the no fly area.”