Til Valhalla

by Richard Fox

  The Marine shouldered his rifle and hurried through the brush.

  “Hale,” Roy said as the Armor followed. “Small world.”

  “I know that voice.” Hale did a double take over his shoulder. “Hey…you made it. Got your plugs. I got my globe and anchor. All’s right with the world.”

  “Old home week can wait,” Sigmund said.

  There was a rumble through the ground and a section of the rock wall pressed back from the face and slid to one side, revealing a dark tunnel.

  “You’re kidding me,” Digger said.

  “You Yanks built a secret base…in a volcano,” Payne said.

  “Dead volcano,” Hale said, raising a finger. “Important to note. You might have to duck a bit to get to the dock, but you’ll manage.”

  “Dock?” Roy was the last through the entrance.

  Hale punched keys and the door slid back into place.

  “Good thing the hydraulics are working. Real bitch to move back into place without them, even with my suit,” Hale said and slid the visor of his helmet up to the top of his head. He was young, barely into his twenties, and with mixed Asian features. “Welcome to Omen Base. Don’t get a lot of visitors here. Especially not ones of your…stature.”

  The Armor had to stoop to follow the Marine as he led them around a corner, and Roy stuttered to a stop as he came out of the tunnel and into a massive cavern. Floodlights dotted the dome-shaped ceiling, lighting a pool that took up much of the ground area, a pier of corrugated metal waiting for whatever would rise from the deep water at the far side of the cavern. Open cargo containers were spaced out across one side of the space. Marines in power armor and others in utility uniforms came out of rooms cut into the volcano rock and stared at the Armor.

  “What in the hell…” Digger said.

  An older man, in Marine fatigue pants and a sweat-soaked undershirt, jogged over to the Armor. One eye was covered by a patch—a dark spot in the middle of burn scars over one side of his face.

  “Captain Acera.” He saluted and Sigmund beat a fist against his chest in return. “Welcome to Omen—if Hale hasn’t done the honors. Lieutenant, get your team over here and bring the package.”

  “Sir,” Hale said and left.

  “Who’s Australian?” Acera put his hands to his hips.

  “What’s it to you?” Digger asked. “And you don’t have anything like this in my Oz, do you?”

  “Omen is a top-secret facility,” Acera said. “Made at great expense and risk by the Atlantic Union. If exposed, the Union will suffer exceptionally grave damage—”

  “Our lips are sealed, crunchy,” Payne said.

  “Much appreciated,” Acera said. “My Strike Marines base out of here for clandestine ops behind Chi-com lines and maintain taps on their fiber-optics lines running from Hainan to Darwin. Blow cargo ships sitting in South Pacific ports. Search and rescue. All kinds of fun.”

  “How’s hunting?” Sigmund asked.

  “Op tempo’s been high.” Acera smiled. “We’ve managed to put a dent in their logistics lines, but not enough to stop everything from getting through to Australia. Chi-com’s net’s gone crazy since you downed the Damocles. Not bad. Wish my Marines had a crack at that mission.”

  “Please,” Digger said, shaking her helm.

  “Your hindsight is impressive,” Sigmund said, “but we are Armor. We need to get back to the real fight.”

  Acera reared back slightly, then jerked a thumb to the empty dock.

  “There’s an unmanned sub coming for you,” the Marine said. “Not due for hours. Getting you all inside will be a bit…problematic. But the Ibarra Corporation thought things through.”

  Four Strike Marines in power armor carried over a cargo pod with Ibarra’s logo emblazoned on four sides. They set it down and a panel swung open. Inside were metal bars, sealed pallets, and four rifles almost as large as the Marines.

  “Mounting frames for the sub,” Acera said. “You all are rated for deep ocean pressure, right? Chi-com ships haven’t had the best of luck finding our subs, but you never know. The Damocles going down might light a fire under their Commie asses.”

  “You’re going to strap us to the side of a submarine…” Payne said. “Not the strangest way we’ve got around today. What then? Shoot us at the Chi-com like…Strategic Human Insertion Torpedoes. No. Can’t call it that. Don’t give Ibarra any other ideas.”

  “Brass wants you back in the land Down Under,” Acera said. “Not exactly sure where yet. We’ve got a couple hours to work that out.”

  “You’ve comms back to Colonel Carius?” Sigmund asked.

  Acera nodded and pointed to the oversized rifles. “And those are for you, naturally. Prototypes, according to the shipping manifest,” he said.

  Sigmund pulled a rifle out of the pod and held it up for the other Armor to see. Mag coils ran down the barrel. Twin-magazine wells made up the stock—one for ammo, the other for a battery stack.

  “Gauss rifle,” Sigmund said. “Tesla strength up to—”

  “It’s an Armor killer.” Digger took the weapon from Sigmund and tried to aim down nonexistent sights. “Heard rumors about these…Ibarra stop them from exploding after the third shot?”

  “We run our gauss at eighty percent of max field strength,” Acera said. “We can hotshot them to defeat Dragon armor. That gets risky for us. You tanks can probably handle it if those pop off.”

  “What did he call us?” Roy asked, and all four Armor looked down at Acera.

  “This bad boy,” Acera said as he turned and slapped the top of the pod, “can fit so many gauss shells and power mags in it. Ibarra either has enormous confidence in you four or he wants field data under combat conditions.”

  “We just killed the Damocles.” Sigmund took another gauss rifle out and tossed it to Payne.

  “Probably both,” Acera said. “Also got amni…amni-otis juice and field repair packs.”

  “Dismount,” Sigmund said. “We’ve got to do our own maintenance. Acera, we’ll need a few warm bodies to help us out.”

  “Let Payne stay linked,” Digger said. “May need him inside to—”

  “We can remote-control a suit for any heavy lifting,” he snapped. “Can’t do effective repairs from inside. Dismount.”

  Digger looked at Payne, and he nodded.

  “This is an all-hands-on-deck event. But manpower has to go to building these cages.” Acera pointed to the bars. “Ibarra sent instructions that are supposedly ‘Marine proof.’ Doubt he’s met many Marines. Let’s get you four back in the fight.”

  “Take care of your gear and it’ll take care of you,” Sigmund said. “To work.”

  Chapter 14

  Roy, clad in his skin suit and a pair of borrowed, ill-fitting steel-toed boots, twisted a wrench inside the forearm housing where his cannons had once been. The suit knelt on one knee, fist planted against the deck. A long dent ran down the length of the lower arm.

  Roy wiped sweat from his brow and handed the tool back to Hale, now wearing simple fatigues.

  “Hydrospanner,” he said.

  “Not the torque adjuster?” the Marine asked.

  “Hydrospanner,” Roy repeated, an edge of impatience in his tone.

  “If you say so. You’re the one with the plugs.” Hale hefted a silver tool from an oversized metal box. “I’m the one that washed out of Knox. Not you, right? How’d the rest of the platoon do?”

  “Morris rejected his implant.” Roy tapped the back of his head. “Danfield…what happened to her? Think she cracked during the last long dark.”

  Hale turned his gaze up to Roy’s Armor and his face fell. Roy bit his bottom lip, remembering that Hale had failed out of selection during the same phase. When a cadet cracked inside the sensory-deprivation chamber, word got around fast.

  “How about Elias?” Hale asked, running a knuckle down the side of his jaw. “God, that guy could take a beating. Dish one out too.”

  “Yeah, I think he knocked ever
yone out during combatives. He made it. Saw him and Kallen and Bodel in country,” Roy said.

  “Kallen…” Hale shook his head. “Don’t tell my asshole brother a quadriplegic made it through and I couldn’t.”

  “You doubted she’d get her plugs?” Roy stuck the end of the hydrospanner into the open compartment of the forearm housing and spun the tip against a bolt. “She lives for her Armor. And the rest of her lance.”

  “They still called the Iron Hearts?”

  “That’s what they’ll always be.” Roy grimaced and glanced into the housing. “Something’s jammed into the gears. You got a—”

  “Gerber,” Hale said and handed him a multi-tool, the metal pincers out and ready for use.

  Roy reached it inside and gripped something he couldn’t see. He felt liquid seep down his hand and twisted whatever was caught up in the works.

  “Please don’t be a busted hydraulic line,” Roy said. “Don’t have time to do a full breakdown of—got it.” He pulled his hand out slowly and stopped when he saw blood running down past his wrist. He worked his hand against the Gerber but didn’t feel any pain.

  As he brought the rest of his hand out, more blood followed. Gripped between the pincers was part of a human jaw, teeth, and flesh glistening in the light.

  Roy dropped the tool like it was on fire and bumped into Hale. He wiped his hand against his skin suit, pointing to the remains on the deck as he jabbered and beat his bloody hand against his thigh, his mind racing.

  “Jesus, is that…you OK, Roy?” Hale grabbed him by the shoulders and twisted him away from the bit of jaw.

  “I…I did that,” Roy said. “I punched through the pod and I-I-I—”

  “Mine.” Payne appeared out of nowhere, put an arm around Roy’s shoulders, and led him away. He put a hand over Roy’s plugs and kept his head down. “Look at your feet and just breathe, mate.”

  Roy’s vision narrowed as he shuffled forward, sensations of the battle aboard the Damocles overwhelming him. The feeling of his fist breaking the pod and pulverizing the man within crept up and down his arm like a phantom pain.

  He went down against a tile wall and rain fell against his head and shoulders. His mind felt like it detached from his body as he let the water pound against him for a time. Finally, Roy returned to himself and looked up. He was in a shower stall, the head dribbling on him. Payne leaned against the entrance, arms crossed.

  “Back?” Payne asked.

  “Yeah.” Roy nodded quickly. Water flecked off his face and Payne turned the shower off. “God I…I’m a killer now. No getting away from it.” He raised one hand and wiped the last smear of blood off his wrist.

  “Good.” Payne sniffed hard. “Good. Be that…it helps.”

  “How do you…how do you make yourself OK with it?” Roy asked. “I knew—always knew—what Armor’s meant to do on the battlefield. Don’t carry the guns for show. Saw the aftermath of the fights in Alaska and…I know what war is. I just never thought it would…why do I feel like this?”

  Payne rubbed the side of his nose.

  “Killing other men isn’t normal,” Payne said. “Takes time to process. You having a reaction…means you’re right in the head. Or you were. Got to accept what you are now and keep killing because that’s what war is. Some can’t hack it and fold. If you’re going to fold and give up, do it now. Do it now so the rest of the lance isn’t trying to keep you alive in the next fight when you freeze up and can’t pull the trigger.”

  “That would be worse.” Roy wiped the top of his head and ran fingertips over his plugs. “I can’t take back what I’ve done. If I fold, then I’m a killer and a weakling. How could I ever live with that?”

  “Most don’t for long,” Payne said. “Who you gonna be, mate?”

  Roy pressed a palm against the metal that was part of his skull. An image of his brother, wasting away on a hospital bed with his mind burned out by the war, came to him.

  “Here I am.” Roy looked up Payne. “I am Armor.”

  “Then be Armor.” The Australian reached a hand to him and helped Roy to his feet. “And how do I deal with it? Easy. I’m not killing men. I’m slaying dragons with Saint George and Saint Michael the Archangel beside me.”

  “I guess we can all remain saints,” Roy said and stepped out of the shower.

  “He good now?” Digger said from behind. She was on a bench, one towel wrapped around her waist, another drying out her hair. She was topless and didn’t seem to care that Roy was gawking at her.

  Roy whirled around, nearly slipping.

  “What’s wrong, seppo?” she asked. “Never seen these before?”

  “I’m…I’m from Utah,” he said.

  “Girls not have tits in Utah?” she asked.

  “They do,” he said, nodding quickly.

  “Prude,” she said and got into her skin suit. “Atlantic Union has their pay system tied to biometrics, yeah?”

  “What?” Roy glanced back at her.

  “You found a contact?” Payne asked.

  “I did. And he won’t take an IOU.” Digger rolled her eyes. “Need a favor from you, kid. We’ll pay you back. Scout’s honor.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Roy said.

  “Just play along and act casual,” she said.

  ****

  Roy, Payne, and Digger walked down a dimly lit hallway, one wall raw rock, the other sheet metal. Digger rapped at a door and it cracked open.

  “How many?” came from inside.

  “Three,” Digger said, sighing heavily. “For shit’s sake, we’re in a volcano and you think—”

  The door swung open and a rail-thin man with sandy hair and a weak chin waved them in. “Your accent is your passport,” he said and the Armor went into a small storeroom, Payne pushing Roy over the threshold.

  The man wore a Marine utility uniform, his name tape conspicuously missing.

  “Who’s this?” He leveled a finger at Roy. “His mother know he’s here? How do we know he’s cool?”

  Payne turned Roy around and showed off his plugs.

  “I am so lost right now,” Roy said.

  “Another of the august and richly compensated Armor Corps.” The Marine leaned against a case and crossed his arms over his chest. “I take it he’s the one paying.”

  “Paying for what?” Roy asked.

  “We’ll get you back once we’re home,” Digger said to him. “Mouth. Shut.”

  “What’ve you got?” Payne asked.

  “You’ve got the money, I’ve got the goods.” The Marine flipped up a case lid. “Welcome to Standish Liquors, best selection this side of the International Date Line.” He reached inside and held up two bottles of clear liquid, the labels covered in Chinese symbols. “Got Maotai standard—ignore the Chi-com ration trackers. The Commies aren’t looking for these bottles anymore. Wanjiu Wang…I’m pretty sure the snake’s plastic. Changyu special fine brandy.”

  “We don’t drink that,” Digger said. “What else?”

  “Wait…” Roy’s brows furrowed. “Is that—”

  Digger stepped on his foot.

  “Brem!” Standish picked up a tear-shaped bottle of amber booze and brushed dust off it. “Indonesia’s finest spirit. Truly delicious stuff, my personal favorite. Found in the remains of a resort on Bali. Don’t ask what I was doing there. I could tell you, but then I’d have to…you know. Two for the price of one to get you started. How many you want?”

  “Brem is rice wine,” Digger said. “Sake. Shit sake at that. What’re you trying to pull over on us? What else you got?”

  “Picky, picky.” Standish put the bottle back and shook his head. “No Fosters. Sorry. Can’t keep that stuff cold out here.”

  “Australians don’t drink that garbage,” Payne said.

  “But I thought it was Australian for…” Standish shrugged and rubbed his hands together. “I can dip into my special reserve, but it comes at a premium.”

  “Show me,” Digger
said.

  Standish put a thumb to a reader on another case and Roy frowned as it popped open with a hiss. That sort of security measure wasn’t used on Atlantic Union logistics.

  Standish held up a small bottle the size of his hand.

  “From the green hills of Tennessee,” he said. “Endorsed by the patron saint of Las Vegas, Frank Sinatra. I have eight ounces of whiskey for—”

  “We’ll take it,” Digger said. “How much?”

  Standish smiled and pulled a small tablet from a pocket and tapped on the screen, then flashed a number to the three of them.

  “Holy…” Roy’s jaw dropped. “That’s more than I make in—” Payne put a hand over his mouth.

  “In the spirit of our new alliance,” Digger said, sounding like the words tasted bitter in her mouth, “give us mate’s rates.”

  “What now?” Standish raised an eyebrow.

  Roy pulled his face free of Payne and said, “Welcome to my world.”

  “Can you do a bit better?” Digger rubbed the tattoo on her face.

  “Tell you what…” Standish reached into a pocket and pulled out a small blister pack of pills. “Chasers. But you Down Under types call them So-bies. Guaranteed to clear your bloodstream of any alcohol in two minutes flat. Minor side effects. Great for getting back on duty lickety-split and avoiding court martials. I’ll throw those in for free.”

  “Fine. Roy, pay the man.” Digger clapped her hands.

  Payne grabbed the American by the elbow and stuck his hand out. Standish slapped the tablet against his palm and it dinged.

  “Money routes through a number of shells I have set up,” Standish said. “You’ll see a number of small charges adding up to the total, all with ‘S-L’ in the company name. Don’t try and dispute the charges. The companies cycle in and out of business every little while, so you’ll never get it back.”

  “But how do I know you won’t—” Roy snatched his hand back from the screen as Digger stepped on his foot again. “Ow! Quit it.”

  “Every good business runs on word of mouth and repeat customers.” Standish handed over the whisky to Digger. “Just be smart about who you share it with. If I have to dump my stock because there’s heat on me, it’ll get more expensive for everyone down the line. Get me?”