The Price of Honor (The United Federation Marine Corps' Grub Wars Book 2)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  “OK, let’s get back, he said.

  For no particular reason, he gave the hatch next to him a shove, and it opened into a darkened compartment. The Federation Navy was death on open compartments, and he thought the New Budapest Navy had to be the same, so he reached inside to pull it shut.

  The upswung rifle butt caught Hondo by surprise. He ducked back, but it glanced off his chest, tearing his hood and bunching it up in front of his face. Acting more on instinct, he reached out and grabbed his assailant as the barrel of the rifle slammed into his shoulder, firing twice into the bulkhead behind him. If the soldier got separation, Hondo would be finished. With his hood bunched up, Hondo couldn’t see much, but he didn’t need to. He slid his left arm around the man’s neck, and hugged him tight, bringing up his Ruger with his right. With the barrel of the Ruger flush on the base of the soldier’s throat, he fired, hoping to panic the man.

  The soldier didn’t panic but simply slumped in his armlock. Wary about a feint, Hondo pushed his hood off so he could see, and his opponent’s face, gasping as blood welled from his mouth, was centimeters from his. He almost recoiled as the soldier seemed to try to ask him something before the light faded from his eyes.

  Hondo was confused. EVA suits were not armored in the classical sense, but they used a ceromesh to ward off micrometeors, and a D-layer to protect from ultraviolet radiation. The ceromesh should have been able to repel his little 2mm darts, but at the base of his neck, he could see a line of holes, right at the joint where he’d placed the muzzle of his handgun.

  He was surprised, but the results were plain. He dropped the soldier as a second charged him from inside the compartment, his face scrunched in unholy anger. EVA suits were made to protect people in the vacuum of space. They were not made for hand-to-hand combat. The soldier should have stood off and shot Hondo, but anger had overcome him, and he was closing in, bringing his G-19 around to bear.

  Hondo, clad in only his utilities, was far more maneuverable. He dropped to the deck just as the soldier fired and dove forward, hitting the man in the knees and sending him tumbling. He reversed himself, diving to tackle the man in the back as he tried to struggle to his feet. That was all the time Hondo needed. He grabbed his first attacker’s 19 and drove the barrel into the base of the second soldier’s back as he fumbled with the trigger. As with the first GG-19 he’d taken, this one had the biolocks bypassed, and Hondo put two rounds through the man. A fountain of blood and guts sprayed the bulkhead as the man collapsed.

  Breathing hard, Hondo looked back down the passage, weapon ready, but there wasn’t anyone else coming.

  “Haus! Why didn’t you help?” he snapped as he tried to get a hold of his breathing.

  He turned to see the Marine on his back, almost cut in two. Even the weapon he’d taken was broken, blasted into a hunk of mangled plastic. Hondo looked at him in disbelief.

  “How . . .?”

  The first soldier had fired twice when Hondo had pushed his rifle aside. Those rounds had hit Haus, he realized, who was trying to come to his aid.

  “Oh, hell, Went,” he said.

  Wolf and Pickerul charged back down the corridor with Wolf sliding to a stop when he saw Haus’ body. He slowly knelt and tried to push the two sections back together.

  “Not now, Wolf,” Hondo told him. “We’ll come back and get him zombied.”

  As bad as it looked, Haus’ head was untouched, and if they got him in stasis, there would be a good chance at a resurrection and a successful, if long, regen.

  Pickerul grabbed Wolf by the shoulder and helped him up, saying, “Let’s go, Corporal. We’ve got to get the bastards that did this.”

  “Looks like Sergeant McKeever already did that,” Wolf said, pointing to the two host.

  “There’re still more of the fuckers, and I want me some of them.”

  She picked up the second 19 and handed it to him. He snapped it out of her hand, checked the action, and nodded. Hondo knew he was back in the game.

  There was the sound of firing from up ahead, and Hondo took off at a run, his ruined hood forgotten. He’d be toast if the ship lost atmosphere again, but now he had full visibility, and he felt reenergized.

  He reached the intersection with the C-ring and turned left.

  “Coming up your rear!” Hondo shouted as the three reached the back of the squad.

  Relief flowed over Killdeer’s face, and she swung back around to look forward. Not that she could fire—the way was blocked by the rest of the squad. Hondo couldn’t even see Hanaburgh and Antman, but he could hear the steady reports of the Oxars.

  “Cover our six,” he told Wolf, then with his second stolen GG-19, started working his way forward.

  He wasn’t sure if there was anyone left behind him, but he had thought that direction was clear before.

  At the side of the corridor, the first sergeant was sitting while Doc Leach applied a pressure sleeve to his left upper arm. Blood dripped off his fingers to pool on the deck.

  “What’s the situation?” he asked the first sergeant, kneeling beside Doc.

  “Your lieutenant’s engaged up ahead. Hanaburgh and Acevedo don’t have targets, but they’re pumping out rounds to remind the host that this way is a no-go for them.”

  Hondo could see the two Marines now, one on each side of the passage, taking turns firing rounds.

  “Antman, how many rounds do you have left?” he yelled.

  The lance corporal glanced down at his readout and shouted back, “Twenty-two.”

  “I’m at twenty-eight,” Hanaburgh added. “But I’ve got one more mag.”

  Hondo shook his head. Both knew better than to ignore fire discipline. If they ran out of ammo, their Oxars would be useless.

  “Pickerul, up!” he shouted back.

  “Take Antman’s place,” he told her. “And give Hanaburgh this,” he said, handing her the GG-19 he’d just taken. “I want Hanaburgh’s Oxar, though.”

  She grabbed the 19, ran forward to hand it to Hanaburgh, and immediately fired ten rounds down the corridor.

  “Fire discipline, Tammy! Sustained fire.”

  Antman came back, carrying Hanaburgh’s Oxar, which he gave to Hondo.

  “Just sit tight. I don’t want you firing unless you have a target.”

  He turned around to the first sergeant, who was looking pale.

  “You OK, First Sergeant?” he asked.

  “I was fucking shot, McKeever. No, I’m not OK.”

  Right. Pretty obvious. Of course, he’s not OK.

  “How did you get hit? A seeing-eye round?”

  He managed to look sheepish despite the pale pallor. “I sort of went forward to see if I could get eyes on what was happening. One of them got me.

  “The bones worked, though, right Doc?” he asked the corpsman.

  “I told you, the round didn’t penetrate, but it snapped your humerus, and that tore through the skin. You’ll heal up fine,” Doc said.

  “Still, hurts like a bi—” he started before he went quiet, raising his left hand to the side of his hood. “They’re bolting to 24. The lieutenant wants you to get your asses up there to stop them.”

  Hondo jumped up and said, “Everyone, move out now!”

  He ran forward to Pickerul and Hanaburgh, grabbed each of them by the shoulder, and said, “The bros are bolting up a deck. We need to stop them, but pick your targets. The lieutenant’s up there, and we don’t need any friendly fire fuck-ups. No blind firing.”

  With both Marines abreast of him, he ran forward, all senses on the alert as they ran down the curving C-ring. Within 20 meters, they were on the enemy, a last EVA-suited host climbing through an access hatch in the ceiling. All three Marines fired, and the soldier tumbled to the deck, bouncing once, then laying still.

  A stream of darts peppered the bulkhead around them, and Hondo screamed out, “Cease fire, cease fire! We’re First Squad.”

  He felt a hornet’s sting on his left ear before the incoming darts ceased.<
br />
  “Son-of-a-bitch,” he shouted, raising his hand to the ear, which came down bloody.

  “Cease fucking fire, I said.”

  He reached up and explored his ear. It hurt like hell, but it didn’t feel like it had gotten much. A couple of millimeters to his right, and he’d be down for the count, though.

  Corporal Tesseret and his fire team of Marines hesitantly advanced into sight. Tesseret grimaced when he saw Hondo.

  “You OK?”

  He wanted to shout You fucking shot me! but the attention had to be on the host and what they were doing.

  “They went up there,” he said instead, pointing to the still-open hatch in the overhead. “And secure that guy,” he added, pointing to the soldier on the deck, who had weakly raised one hand in surrender.

  PFC John gave his weapon to Tesseret and patted down the wounded soldier while Lance Corporal Western started up the access ladder to the hatch. Western stuck his Oxar up through the hatch and fired three rounds, only to drop his weapon as it was hit by return fire. The Oxar almost hit the John and the soldier, and Tesseret stepped in to kick it out of the way. A chagrined Western climbed back down to retrieve the weapon, checking it over for damage.

  Lieutenant Abrams came into view. Hondo could see that he was talking over the ship’s comms as he peered up into the hatch.

  Suddenly, he turned to Hondo and yelled out, “They’re heading back towards berthing. Get your squad back down the six corridor and cut them off.”

  Hondo wheeled around and started running, pulling the rest of the squad in his wake, trying to picture where the six would lead him.

  “McKeever, take this,” the first sergeant said as he passed, tossing up the headset. Hondo snagged it in mid-air and fumbled it onto his ear. He could hear Captain Ariç giving a running position check on the fleeing host.

  Not the entire host. One soldier stayed behind, guarding the access hatch they’d used to get out of the C-ring.

  “Bypass him, Armando,” the skipper told the lieutenant. “We need to stop the host and keep them aboard.”

  Why? If they are giving up, let them, Hondo thought for a moment before what she’d said registered.

  She knew that if the Marines could capture a significant number of Brotherhood host, they would be human shields, protecting the Zrínyi from being blown into her component atoms—and the Marines and Navy crew along with her.

  That was probably why the host was booking, if what it looked like was true. They still had a weapons advantage over the Marines, but with the Marines’ stiff resistance, what they probably hoped would be an easy ship takedown was getting harder and not worth the effort.

  “Skipper, is anyone closing in on our corridor?” he asked over the comms.

  “Who is this?” she asked.

  That’s right, this is a ship’s portable comms system, and it can’t identify me.

  “Sergeant McKeever. We’re in pursuit along the six corridor.”

  “That’s a negative, Sergeant. I’ll let you know if I see anything closing in on you.”

  “Pick it up!” he yelled to Wolf and First Team, who were now point again.

  Wolf was advancing according to SOP, which meant clearing every intersection. With the skipper on angel watch, they could speed up in the hopes of cutting the host off before they reached Charlie Company’s berthing spaces.

  Wolf turned around, a confused look on his face.

  “It’s clear ahead. Just go for it.”

  He gave a tiny shrug, then broke into a run.

  “You’re behind them, McKeever,” the skipper said, “and falling behind.”

  Hondo sprinted ahead, pulling alongside of Wolf. The corporal was huffing and puffing as he ran, the hood’s faceplate fogging up. Hondo, without a hood, was having no problem.

  “Faceplates up!” he shouted.

  Killdeer gave a “Thank God” as she flipped up her hood, her face red with exertion.

  The lieutenant had given the order for the hoods to be closed up, but sergeants were paid the big NCO credits to have initiative. He should have ordered that when they started off in pursuit.

  “Sergeant McKeever, the first host have reached the outer ring, and I don’t think Lieutenant Abrams is going to get there in time to stop them. You’ve got to push it.”

  The Zrínyi was an older ship with evacuateable compartments. With the berthing space now open to the black, the ship’s emergency system would not allow an inside hatch to be opened unless that space had its atmosphere evacuated. Any adjoining space could be used as an ad hoc airlock. If the soldiers had something to blow the hatch, they were in EVA suits and could survive unless the suits were damaged by the ragged junk inside berthing. If they couldn’t or wouldn’t blow the hatch, they had to wait until the space was in a vacuum.

  First Team ran into the last secure space and turned around at the door, waiting for the rest to crowd inside. Hondo pushed forward and stood, motioning with his arm for the rest to hurry when Wolf tapped him on the arm.

  “What?” Hondo snapped.

  Wolf pointed at his own hood, then at Hondo’s naked head.

  “Shit!”

  He wasn’t good at breathing vacuum.

  He looked around, and there was an emergency chest close to the far door. He pushed back to it and opened the lid, sighing with relief at the five hoods, still in their packs.

  “Close it,” he ordered Marasco, motioning to the round wheel that would seal the door.

  Unlike a hatch, with a simple lever to lock it in place, the doors used wheels that could be either be spun shut under power or by hand. Power was still good, so it took only a moment for the space to become an airlock.

  “Start evacuation,” Hondo yelled out as he pulled the hood out of its pack.

  Marasco hesitated a moment, looking at Hondo, who yelled, “Just do it. I’m fine.”

  Only he wasn’t fine. He was surprised at how quickly the air was evacuated, and he was feeling hypoxia as he slammed the hood over his head and hit the seals. A moment later, blessed breathable air filled the hood.

  “What’s your status? The host is entering berthing,” the company commander asked.

  “Almost there, ma’am.

  “First, right, Third, left, Second, right up the middle. We need to stop them, and if possible, alive.”

  Sounds were already getting tinny, and he hoped his Marines heard him.

  The wait was almost unbearable as the evacuation system struggled with the last vestiges of atmosphere. Finally, the red light by the outer door switched to green. Hondo rotated his arm in a big circle. That may not have been one of the standard hand and arm signals taught at Charles, but it got the point across. Wolf hit the switch, and the wheel spun open. He pushed on the door, and it opened into berthing.

  Halfway through the door, Killdeer spun around, grabbing her chest as she fell to the deck. Tony B stepped over her and into the space, firing his Hasert .42.

  There was no sound of weapons firing, but the flashes of light told the story of a fierce little firefight. Hondo vaulted Killdeer into the compartment, looking for a target. Three soldiers were standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the edge of the gaping hole in the ship’s bulkhead, firing back at them. Six Marines were through and firing, but the soldiers weren’t hit.

  Fuck that, Hondo thought as he stopped, then deliberately brought up Hanaburgh’s Oxar, calming his mind as if he was on the rifle range back on the Egg. He wasn’t going to miss.

  Before he could get his sight picture, though, the three soldiers wheeled and dove out of the ship. There was a mad rush of Marines to the torn edge, but the three soldiers had doubled back around the hull of the Zrínyi and were almost out of sight as they hugged the hull.

  Almost didn’t mean completely out of sight, however. Hanaburgh fired two shots at the retreating figures, sending one of them pinwheeling into the hull, where he bounced and tumbled. One of the other soldiers doubled back, threw a grappling line around his buddy, and re
eled him in. Hondo thought the wounded soldier was hit one more time, but his rescuer pulled him out of the Marine’s line of sight.

  “Skipper, they all got away,” Hondo reported, hating having to give her the news.

  Of course, she already knew that. The ship’s still-working sensors would have told her there were no remaining host in berthing.

  “Bring your Marines back to the main galley. I want you and the lieutenant to see me in CIC.”

  There was some backslapping among his Marines. They’d just defended the ship from a better-armed Brotherhood unit, after all.

  It was probably a Pyrrhic victory, however, one that could have signaled their doom.

  EARTH

  Chapter 16

  Skylar

  “So, what are you saying?” Sky asked Glinda.

  “My words are my words, Vice-Minister,” the head of the Klethos quad said. “They have no meaning other than what they have.”

  But yes, they do, and just what are you telling me?

  Sky, Dr. Affoue Kouassi from Greater France, and Dr. Norelco Pavoni from the Confederation headed the gathered team that was sent by the secretary-general to try and make sense of the increasingly cryptic remarks coming out of the liaison quad. The meeting was taking place in the ancient Place des Ducs de Bourgogne in Dijon, far enough away from the pressure and prying eyes of Brussels, yet only a half-hour away for everyone except Sky.

  She took a moment to look out the window where the morning sun played through the leaves of some of the huge honey locusts that surrounded the city hall. It was still dark in Pittsburgh, where one moment the evening before she was following the emergency on the SMS Zrínyi, and then the next minute found herself on a shuttle to DC to catch the diplomatic hop to Paris. Despite getting no sleep on the way over, she didn’t feel the least bit tired. Something very important was being not-said, and she had to figure it out.

  “Words have meaning, Ambassador, but what the speaker intends to convey is not always received as such. Differences in culture, for example, can act as a filter.”