“Sket!” Owens says. He runs to his gear locker and begins to strip. He’s been wearing the T-shirt and athletic shorts most of the instructors wear during training evolutions. “Get to the launch-one assault shuttle. First bird off the destroyer. I’ll catch up, but leave without me if you have to. I’ll hitch a ride with the marines.”
The all-comm message repeats, and we’ve got our buckets on before the captain finishes.
Everybody rushes to their lockers to grab a mission bag. We have several of these made up, each for a different environment or situation. I grab my CQC—Close Quarters Combat—shooter bag, the one I use for rescues, captures, stuff like that. It’s optimized for ship-to-ship or building CQC ops. Very light on survival gear, extra fraggers and blaster packs, more tech solutions for getting around sophisticated tech locks without blowing doors down. Yeah, I won’t need all this for the corvette, but it’s better to take the bag and leave what I don’t need in the assault shuttle than it is to waste time digging things out now. Plus, I’ll probably forget something crucial and get us all killed if I don’t take the whole bag.
“I don’t have enough blaster packs for this SAB,” Exo says, hauling his own shooter bag onto his shoulder. This is a problem because the squad automatic blaster came in real handy on our last run through the course.
“Grab some packs from some marines on the flight deck,” Wraith orders.
Even though he’s trying to sell it like he’s fine, Wraith is moving with a slight limp. He turned his ankle pretty bad while we were ducking blaster fire on the bridge. I’m not the only one who notices.
“You okay to go, Captain Ford?” Kags has his bag over his shoulder, his NK-4 strapped to his chest. He reaches out to help Wraith hoist up his own bag. “I can carry that for you, keep the weight off your ankle, sir.”
Wraith shoulders the load and shakes his head. “I’m fine, Kags.”
If anyone could carry two bags and still be primed for the fight, it’s Kags. I remember back to when he climbed up to Outpost Zulu on Kublar. I was sucking air like a fat kid sucks milkshake, and he was barely breathing heavy. But Wraith is carrying his own bag.
Leaving Cap Owens to change, the six of us sprint down Intrepid’s corridors en route to the hangar bay. Sailors, enlisted and officer alike, give us a wide berth. When the captain calls for all combat units to scramble, and you see a black-clad kill team squad running your way, you move.
Thankfully the hangar is placed strategically close to our squad room. Or maybe our squad room is placed close to the hangar. Semantics. We’re there in almost no time, our boots pounding the flight deck as we rush toward the assault shuttle positioned at the front of the launch queue. Fire teams of marines are running to and fro, as are deck crew and launch techs. It’s glorious, organized chaos.
I live for these moments.
I get paid for what comes after launch.
We’re fifty meters from the assault shuttle’s open load doors when I see a marine. He’s doing a slow spin, looking lost. Like he got separated from his buddies. Not a hard thing to do with all the comings and goings inside the hangar. I see that the guy is part of a SAB crew. He’s loaded down with the specialized charge packs. “Exo,” I call, pointing the marine out to my squadmate. “Found your ammo!”
Exo separates from the pack and grabs the marine by his flak jacket. “Hey, hullbuster! You’re comin’ with us.”
The marine says something to protest, but Exo isn’t having it. He practically drags the kid to the assault shuttle. “Don’t worry. We get to go in first. That means you won’t have to wait as long to die!”
I see Captain Owens coming in fast like the squirts after eating at a prueher food buffet, his surge shotgun in one hand and a haversack tucked under the opposite arm. I stow my gear bag under my jump seat and strap in.
“Okay, kill team,” the pilot says almost as soon as our squad gets on the shuttle. “Mission is hot and we’re cleared right now. Strap in.”
“Hold up,” Wraith calls. “We got one more coming. Fifteen seconds.”
“Fifteen seconds,” the pilot repeats, “and then the doors close.”
Captain Owens hurls himself on board the shuttle with five seconds to spare. “Hey kids, miss me?”
“We’re good,” Wraith tells the pilot.
“Closing doors. Prepare for immediate launch.”
The engines of the assault shuttle hum with intensity. We’re the lead bird, so the gauss accelerators are already lined up with our shuttle. We should slingshot through the hangar’s shielding in a few short seconds. I can’t tell if our guys are tense, but the marine looks like he’s going to be sick.
“Hey, hullbuster,” I say. “Remember to tuck your chin and stay with us when we get on board the ’vette. You’ll be fine.”
The assault shuttle blasts out of the hangar and we’re feeling the gees rearrange our insides. If this really is a Republic corvette, there are probably better ways to drop in and pay a visit. But if it’s not…
Our pilot confirms that this is the real deal. “Corvette is positioning for a jump. Impact in twenty seconds.”
“Don’t jump,” I hear Owens repeating in whispers over the L-comm. “Don’t jump.”
“Five seconds,” the pilot calls.
I count down in my mind. We hit at what feels like three.
The corvette’s hull is nowhere near as thick as the hull of a destroyer or the Ohio-class cruiser. We should have a good breach without any extra work on the shuttle’s part.
“Okay, kill team,” the pilot says over the comm. “We’ve got good penetration. Right above the primary north-south corridor. Seal integrity looks… outstanding. We’re one with the ship. Hey, uh… but before you lower the ramp, I’m picking up a concentrated number of hostiles moving from the shuttle bay.”
“Marines looking to repel boarders,” Twenties suggests. “Yeah, this is MCR for sure.”
“I’ve got visual on the external holocam,” the pilot reports calmly. “Looks like… zhee.”
Okay. So that’s no surprise. The zhee have been part of our training evolutions. Whatever the Legion wanted Dark Ops to train for, we’re about to do it.
Pings and clangs pepper the hull.
“Zhee are unloading on the ramp,” Masters says. He’s sitting closest to the door, so he’s no doubt hearing the hornet-like buzzing loudest of all. Couple that with the fact that he’s gone down more than once during training, and I’m worried he’s going to get twisted.
“We can’t drop the door like this, man,” he says. “They’ll chew us up.”
He’s right. Nerves or not, he’s right. We drop that door and the blaster fire will come in so thick, there’s just no way we’ll avoid casualties. “Hullbuster!” I call. “You got a cutting torch?”
“Yes, sir!” The marine passes down the torch.
I hand it to Masters. “I want you to cut a fragger-sized hole in the ramp.”
“Yeah,” Masters says, taking the torch and thumbing it live. “I see where you’re going.”
Blue-white flashes light up the interior of the cabin as a glowing circle takes shape in the ramp door. When the circle is almost completely cut, I tap Exo on the shoulder. “Get ready to send a grenade outside as soon as the hole opens.”
“Fragger or ear-popper?” Exo asks, digging into his hip pouch.
“Why not both?” Wraith suggests.
“Ooah,” Exo says. “Time to KTF these donks.”
Masters knocks out the cut-circle with a sharp jab of his armored elbow. Exo leans over and sends the grenades through the opening. First the ear-popper, then the fragger. A red blaster bolt sizzles and impacts the lip of the opening, sending sparks inside.
Exo pulls his hand back and wiggles his gloved fingers in front of his helmet. “Bastards almost blew my digits off!”
Boom!
The ear-popper is loud enough that I feel the vibration on the deck of our shuttle, bright enough that the flash fills our cabin with white
light.
Boom! Boom!
The fragger goes next, two successive blasts sending shrapnel in every direction. Thankfully, the blast radius doesn’t extend to our little peephole.
“Drop the ramp!” Owens shouts.
The shuttle doors go down and we fill the opening with blaster fire. We unstrap and jump to the deck. The zhee around us are crawling, and blood is everywhere. A few of the donkey-like creatures are struggling to raise bleeding limbs perforated by the fragger’s shrapnel. Trusting that their gods will guide their blaster bolts.
We dust them before their gods have a chance to hear their prayers.
“Kill every last one of these donks,” Owens orders, sending a shotgun blast into a zhee who’s belly crawling toward his feet, a blood trail snaking behind.
We leave no survivors as we head to the engine room.
“Damn,” the marine says as we turn the corridors, muscle memory guiding us to our target and destination. “You guys need to think about what just happened. I don’t mean to jinx it, but that was over a dozen zhee who managed to get guns trained on a deboarding assault shuttle. I’ve never heard of that happening without serious casualties. You guys didn’t even take a scratch! You’re untouchable. And you just rewrote assault shuttle doctrine. That’s history, man. That’s indelible.”
“Looks like this hullbuster’s been reading textbooks in his spare time,” Twenties jokes. “Using a big word like ‘indelible.’”
“That’s us,” Masters chimes in. “The Indelible Six. Captain Owens calls us that all the time. Right, Cap?”
“Oh, yeah,” Owens deadpans. “I even write the name in my journal. Dot the i’s with a heart.”
We grow quiet as we move through the empty corridor, weapons at the ready. In the training evolutions, we didn’t encounter hostiles until breaching the engine room. Here, I don’t know what to expect. But so far, it’s been remarkably similar. I feel the sensation of the deck vibrating beneath my feet.
“You guys feel that?” I ask.
“Feel what?”
“Yeah,” Wraith says, “I felt it.”
“Felt what?”
Owens sighs into his comm. “Corvette just made the jump to hyperspace. We’re doing this op on hard mode.”
27
You’re Tom, on the bridge of the corvette, Ankalor’s Pride.
Think, Tom. Just… just calm down and think. You tell yourself that there’s still time. Still time to blow this boat up. Still time to rid the galaxy of Scarpia. Time to tell your wife that what you did with Illuria… to Illuria… was for her. For her and your daughter. For the galaxy. Hell, even for the Republic.
But that’s if you can actually have a bridge console to yourself. Without Frogg or someone else—one of the MCR crew—looking over your shoulder. Because they’ll see. Warnings will need to be disregarded. Alarms muted. Overrides provided.
They’ll see that, Tom, won’t they?
Oh, yes, they will.
Frogg will see it, and his froggy eyes will widen and he’ll send that knife right between your ribs. Deflate your lungs, pierce your heart. And he’ll smile, satisfied. And Scarpia will call him old boy.
And you’ll be dead.
Which is the worst thing that can happen to you right now.
The jump to Ankalor will be finished in moments, and then, as far as Scarpia is concerned, your job is done. This is a waiting game. On the bridge. With the MCR in their stolen Republic uniforms.
“What could you possibly want with a console, Tom?” Scarpia would ask.
And Frogg would lick his lips. Because what would you want with a console when the job is done and you’re just waiting for a shuttle full of zhee to come aboard so you can take said shuttle and enjoy the good life? Fixed rates, and all that.
“We are in Ankalor space, just above orbit,” the MCR navigator announces.
The head zhee, not a sailor but still the captain, says nothing.
“Shall we hold here and await the shuttle’s arrival?” another MCR officer suggests, showing deference to a clueless captain.
The whole bridge feels like grown adults playing a kids’ game of war. But… the payload. The House of Reason. They’re playing for keeps.
“Do not burden me with your formalities,” the zhee says, dismissing the MCR lackeys with a wave of his hoof-hand.
Nobody knows what they’re doing on this bridge. Unreal.
You don’t know what you’re doing.
I do.
You do?
I know what I’m doing. I just don’t know what to do.
Ah. Tom knows what to do. Take the money and run, Tom. Fixed rates. You’ve gone so far. Murdered thousands. Bedded Illuria. Why not just call it the start of a new life? As Tom.
We’re Tom.
You shake the thoughts from your mind. This is the part of you that’s trying to hold on. Trying not to die in a fiery, self-made explosion. But you have to die, if others are to live.
“Sir,” a sensor tech shouts from his display. “There’s a Republic destroyer within range. The Intrepid.”
Scarpia raises an eyebrow at this wrinkle.
You hear Frogg hiss, “Exactly what I thought might have gone wrong. Scarpia, we need to jump now. Zhee honor guard be damned.”
Scarpia turns to you, inviting your thoughts. Your heart is racing, because a Republic destroyer means at least one kill team. Which could mean…
No. You have to focus. Answer Scarpia. As Tom. Tell him what Tom would say.
“Frogg’s right. We’re not supposed to be here. If they launch assault shuttles quickly, we may not have the opportunity to jump.”
Scarpia considers for a moment longer. He raises a hand and steps toward the MCR officer who most ought to be the captain, and the zhee captain who should not be a captain. “May I have a word?”
The zhee, the rebel, and the arms dealer form a triangle without lines. They speak in hushed tones, but it’s clear to you what’s happening. Scarpia is suggesting a retreat, the zhee will have none of it, and the MCR officer is doing his best to find a compromise.
“We’re being hailed,” calls the MCR comm tech.
The man who perhaps should be captain straightens himself. “If you’ll excuse me, I should answer this. I’m certain that I can stall the Republic until our shuttle has boarded. I know how to talk to these types. I served in the Republic navy for almost two years.”
Two years. This is the sort of experience the MCR has to offer?
You wait, and listen to the conversation. The subterfuge about unscheduled arrivals and picking up VIPs. You don’t think about Illuria. Or your family. You think about the captain of the Intrepid, though you don’t know their name. You find yourself willing—praying?—for them to launch assault shuttles.
See through this paper-thin excuse of an officer.
The conversation between the two ships continues. You begin to worry that the MCR officer may be able to stall the captain of the Intrepid long enough. Whoever he’s talking to, it’s as if they’re old friends.
Salvation comes in the panicked voice of the MCR sensor tech. “They’ve launched assault shuttles!”
Assault shuttles!
With kill teams. And marines.
A dumb silence falls over the bridge. You see the MCR who would be captain looking at the now-blank holodisplay. Frozen in his place.
It dawns on you that no one is going to do anything. They don’t know how. All you have to do is wait and then… what? Raise your hands? Lie on the floor and hope the kill team takes you alive? X never walked you through this final part of Operation Ghost Hunter.
How do you prove you’re not a traitor?
“Tom!” Scarpia shouts, his voice high and edgy. “Take command! These fools are worthless.”
You stand there, unsure what to do.
Tom would assume command of the ship.
“Tom!” Scarpia screams again. “Get us out of here! Do something!”
And so you do. Be
cause to do nothing would mean a knife from Frogg, who could probably figure out how to jump the corvette without you.
You rush to a command console and instruct the ship to re-angle to make the jump to hyperspace.
“If we’re going to get out, we need to get out now, before the shuttle docks in our hangar bay,” you announce to the bridge.
You hear a clack, a blaster rifle being primed, just behind your left ear.
“No.” It’s the zhee. “They will board. Or you all will die.”
This is immediately contested. The MCR-who-would-be-captain storms toward the zhee. “Now see here, the agreement was—”
A sudden burst of blaster fire rips into the MCR man’s stomach. He clutches his wound and drops to the floor.
Frogg takes a step, but the zhee has a distance advantage. It swings the blaster rifle and stops Frogg cold in his tracks. The ex-legionnaire backs up and stands beside Scarpia. You can’t make out your erstwhile employer’s face from your vantage point.
You imagine him looking sick.
“I can wait,” you say, keeping your calm. “But that likely means an assault shuttle will breach the ship.”
The zhee gives a reverential bray. “The chosen warriors of our four gods will repel them.”
“The shuttle from Ankalor should dock in one minute,” the sensor tech reports.
You nod. “I’ll prepare the jump coordinates. Utopion is pre-selected. We can dump out en route and formally transfer command to the zhee.”
The zhee in front of you says nothing. He stands unaware of the little things you’ve done to buy extra time. Closing the hangar doors so the shuttle will be forced to wait as they ponderously reopen.
Frogg would have noticed something like that. But the zhee has removed Frogg from your presence, like a sultan would one who displeases him. So no Frogg on hand, no one to notice you delaying the jump timer by three hundred seconds.
The lead assault shuttle is closing, and the Ankalor shuttle carrying the zhee has docked. The zhee are no doubt pouring out like space rats from an infected hold right about now.
“They are on board,” the zhee captain shouts. “Make the jump!”
Kill Team (Galaxy's Edge Book 3) Page 21
