by J. N. Chaney
Rev took Mason by the shoulder and leaned him back, then straightened his legs. Blood pooled under him, while more blood, chips of bone, and brain matter dripped down the blankets. He looked bad, but until a doctor pronounced him dead, there was still a chance that he could be brought back. Time was of an essence, and that meant whoever had shot the sergeant had to be removed from the situation if he was going to be airlifted out. Rev could carry him back, but even if he wasn’t jumped as a target of opportunity, it would just take too long for Mason.
“Stand by to accept trace.”
“Give me a map with the overlay.”
Punch did his electronic magic, and the map appeared as if thirty centimeters in front of his face. Highlighted was the trace of the round that had taken out the sergeant. The CofA had been the in next block, beyond the park, and up in one of the tall apartment buildings on the other side, 1,324 meters away.
Rev looked down at Mason’s body. That wasn’t a dart that had hit him. It was a chemical round, and that, coupled with the fact that the sergeant had been in the hide—and only hit when he shifted his position—had all the signs of an enemy sniper. Some normal grunt would not be looking and have acquired Mason nor made that shot.
He scooted up to the window, keeping below the sill.
“Get ready to record.”
Rev popped up, looking at the far-off apartment building, then dropped down, expecting a shot to follow him.
“Give me a look.”
An image of the building popped into his occipital lobe. Punch had the azimuth overlayed on the image. There was no way to tell from what floor the shot originated based on the data from overhead, but that still narrowed it down.
“Anything?”
“What about all those terabytes of data you have. Can you narrow it down?”
Rev took a quick look at the image again. The building had twelve floors. If Punch was correct, then that narrowed it down to three windows or the roof.
Something tickled the recesses of his memory. He thought back to Staff Sergeant Jesup, his green-shirt sniper instructor back at Camp Nguyen.
“Isn’t it SOP for a sniper to move after each shot?”
“And some Angel shits had military training, right?”
Crap, if I hurry, maybe I can catch the bastard.
Rev started to edge up, his M49 at the ready, but then he reconsidered. He knew he could hit a man-sized target at this range, but the Children of Angels sniper wouldn’t be walking around, making it easy. And while the M49 darts were quick, they wouldn’t be able to penetrate a heavy wall if the sniper was using it as cover.
But Sergeant Mason’s Dykstra would. He looked down on it. The Dykstra had been his bane during training, but by the end of Staff Sergeant Jesup’s coaching, he’d become passable with it. And his firing profile for the weapon was locked in Punch’s amazing database.
“Go big or go home, Reverent.”
Rev dropped his M49 and crawled to the Dykstra, jacking himself into the weapon’s receiver.
“New shooter. Initialize.”
The weapon shifted, adjusting the stock and sights to his personal data. He took off his helmet, then he brought the rifle to a firing position for a moment. It felt like it was fitted to him. He was ready.
Mason had the augments to stand stock-still, but even as strong as Rev was, he didn’t think he could hold the weapon on target just waiting for the enemy sniper, then snap off an effective shot. He had to use the edge of the sill, which would make him vulnerable to the other gunman.
No, I don’t.
Right behind him was the couch. Rev ran to it and pushed it back, stopping just short of the sergeant’s body and about two meters from the window. He had to yank down one of the blankets, but after that, he could still see the top floors of the building in the distance.
He took a firing position with the barrel of the big weapon lying on the top of the couch, the scope centered on the middle of the ninth floor.
“Key analytics,” he ordered.
All of the environmentals, such as Alafia’s gravity, rate of rotation, and a bunch of factors that he didn’t remember, were already entered into the weapon. Temperature, humidity, and wind had to be measured.
“Give me a firing solution,” he ordered Punch as he looked through the scope. The crosshairs shifted up and to the left to take into account how the variables would affect the round’s trajectory.
“Center the crosshairs.”
If the tech was working, all Rev had to do was keep the crosshairs on the target, and assuming no shift in the wind, he should hit it.
“Should” being the operative word. He remembered how difficult it had been for him back at Nguyen.
“You see anything?”
“Keep your eyes peeled.”
If Rev didn’t have to focus, he would have rolled his eyes at that. But he just watched through the scope, looking for any sign of movement.
“Delta-Victor-Three-Bravo, we have a CASEVAC standing by. Is the area secure?”
“Wait one.”
For a moment, he wondered if he could call for fire on the building, taking it down. But he knew that would be disapproved. The ROI called for clearing by infantry. No, it had to be him.
Punch highlighted a window on the tenth floor, four over from where Rev had the crosshairs centered with a pulsing red dot. Rev adjusted the aim to the window.
“Increase magnification by three.”
The image zoomed in. With the sun over Rev’s shoulder, the glare on the window kept him from seeing inside. But it was open just a crack. He shook the gauntlet off his right hand, then wiped his fingers dry on the couch.
And as he watched, there it was. The muzzle of a weapon edged out just a few centimeters, pointing in the direction from which Fox Company would be coming.
“Extrapolate the gunner’s position.”
A few centimeters, particularly at more than a klick away, didn’t give Punch much, but he created an outline and overlaid it on the window. It wasn’t much of a target, just a head and shoulder, and Rev started having second thoughts.
Can I do this?
But he didn’t have to look to know Sergeant Mason was right below him, and he needed to get stabilized if there was any chance of bringing him back. He centered his crosshairs on the outline. He released the safety with this thumb, then rested his forefinger just above the small button that was the trigger.
He could hear Staff Sergeant Jesup coaching him, telling him to take three deep breaths, then letting the last one out. The muzzle seemed to start traversing back, and he almost jammed down on the trigger, but that would certainly pull the shot.
Just breathe. In one. Out one. In two, out two. In three, out halfway and hold . . .
His finger touched the trigger when the muzzle suddenly jerked, and Rev could swear that he could see down the barrel despite how far away it was. The movement pushed the window farther open, and a scope appeared, a face with long auburn-red hair behind it.
Rev fired, and the big .62-caliber round arched up, reaching for the Angel shit sniper. He saw a flash from the muzzle just before his round crashed through the window and into the scope. The person behind it disappeared an instant before the incoming round hit the couch ten centimeters from his head, sending stuffing into the air where it fell like snowflakes around him.
Rev jumped back and turned. The bullet passed through the couch, gouging into the deck and through t
o at least the floor below. Rev had on his PAL-5, but he wasn’t wearing his helmet, and there were rounds that could penetrate even the armor’s carapace. By the looks of what it had done, that might have been one of those rounds.
“Don’t just sit there looking at it!”
He ducked back down, brought up the Dykstra, and scoped the window. There was no sign of movement, but in the back, was that . . . ?
“Can you analyze that discoloration?”
Rev jumped off the couch and retrieved it. Punch changed the filter, and the stain he saw through the shattered window now shined a bright neon turquoise—the sign for blood.
Rev let out a huge breath of air and lowered the Dykstra. Somehow, he’d gone one-on-one with a trained sniper and come out on top. The gods of war must really be watching out for him.
He keyed open his comms. “Tango-Tango-Three, the area is secure. Send in the CASEVAC.”
19
Rev hopped off the chopper and helped carry Sergeant Mason until the Aid Station corpsmen took over. He watched silently as they hustled him away. The CASEVAC corpsman said there was a chance that they could bring him back, but with the brain damage, it didn’t look good.
“Fight hard, buddy.”
He turned to go back to the platoon bivouac. He’d beaten back the rest of the patrol, and he was grateful for that. He needed to get his head on straight before everyone started grilling him.
Everything had been a mad rush, from carrying Mason to the roof, loading him into the bird, and to the short flight back. And in the process, Rev had filed a false report, a big-time offense. If he was caught, they could ninety-nine him, sending him back to Nguyen with a thirty-year obligation.
“Have you erased the feed?”
“Then we can’t give them a reason to look.”
In the three or four minutes he’d been waiting on the roof for the CASEVAC, Rev had filed a report on what happened. Or not quite what had happened.
Mason had wanted to become a HOG, and it was through no fault of his own that snipers weren’t effective against Centaurs. But with him dead and with little chance of being resurrected, that wasn’t going to be in the cards.
Unless he was already a HOG.
Without thinking it through, Rev had reported that Mason had gotten the kill, firing a split second before the opposing sniper fired the shot that killed him. The delay in Rev reporting back that the area was secure was because he had to confirm that Mason had, in fact, taken out the threat.
If that had actually been the case, then Sergeant Mason died a HOG, just as he’d wanted.
It wasn’t until they were landing that he realized what he’d done. He’d given Punch orders to alter his feed, erasing anything that contradicted his version. But, as his battle buddy had reminded him, that would only work with a person-to-person share, and even then, he’d have to explain the gaps. If anyone higher up wanted to try and recover what had happened, it would all be exposed.
Not only that. The Navy orbital surveillance could easily prove that Rev’s story was false, that there was a couple-of-minutes gap between the two shots. All Rev could hope for was that his report would be taken at face value, and no one would bother to look too deeply.
He was shaking as he walked to the bivouac. He couldn’t imagine being kicked off the teams, to serve out a long term of service as a Ninety-nine.
“No! Read the room, Punch!”
“Screw the numbers!” he shouted, drawing some stares from other Marines. Then subvocalizing again, he said, “I don’t care about my bios. I don’t want a joke now.”
He shifted his fear to anger, directing it at Punch and the psychs who programmed him. And for a moment, he wondered if that was exactly what Punch intended. It didn’t matter, however, if he was being manipulated or not. He was pissed either way.
He stormed into the hardened-foam field bivvy and stopped. Far from being empty, it was full while the four teams were busy with their gear.
“Look who the cat dragged in,” Hussein said. “Glad you could make it.”
“Make it?”
“Hey, word is that you got a sniper,” Tomiko said. Two dozen eyes turned to spear him.
Do they know I shot her?”
“I . . . not me. Sergeant Mason did.”
“Well, no shit. But you were his spotter, right?” Greenie Sjberic, from First Team, asked.
He didn’t answer her but asked Tomiko, “What are you doing back already? You should still be out in bad-guy country.”
“Got recalled early.”
“Why?”
“Why? Look around, big guy.” She glanced to the others and said, “He may be big and strong, but he sure can’t put two and two together.”
She tapped a forefinger to the side of her head while everyone laughed and went back to their prep.
Rev was confused. Too much had happened since Mason was shot.
Tomiko walked up, patted his arm, and said, “Let mama explain, Rev. This is it. The Angel shits are getting ready for a big-time offensive. We’re getting ready to kick their asses so we can finally leave this piece-of-shit planet.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course,” he said. “I knew that.”
“You keep telling yourself that, and eventually, you might even believe it. But really, you need to get ready yourself. We’re getting our Ops Order in fifty minutes.”
There was a palpable air of excitement in their bivouac. His fellow Marines were looking forward to taking the fight to the traitors and bringing this to an end.
Rev was starting to get excited too, but not for the same reason. If this was the big battle, then what were the chances that anyone would take the time to dive deep into one mere corporal’s report on a single incident?
20
The camp was quiet, the lull before the storm. But Rev could sense the clouds gathering.
The engineers, with the Ninety-nines doing the grunt work, had erected some pretty significant defenses, turning the spaceport into a fortified strongpoint with kill zones connected by interlocking fires. Inside bunkers, the Marines were safe from most of the longer-range weapons Intel said the Children of Angels had at their disposal. To reach the bunkers where they’d have more effective weapons, they had to cross those kill zones—which was far easier said than done.
“No one can be this stupid,” Tomiko said as they looked at the feed.
“Angel shits can,” Hussein said.
“Nah, not even them. It’s a feint, to see how we’re gonna react.”
“Bet you a dime they attack.”
“Ten credits? Not too sure of yourself, are you Hus-man?”
“OK, make it a cent.”
“A hundred? You’re on.” Tomiko turned to Rev and asked, “You want in on this?”
“Not me. Bad juju to bet on that.”
Tomiko rolled her eyes and said, “You are such a fucking choirboy sometimes. Grow a pair, why don’t you? Anyone else want in?”
Within moments, Yazzie, Nix, and Strap had taken her up on the offer.
“Shit. Four hundred,” she whispered to Rev. “The Angel shits better not come, or I’m sunk.”
“You didn’t have to raise the bet.”
But she did. That was just how Tomiko rolled, talking big and pushing it—and that was just one of the things that made her who she was. And Rev wouldn’t have it any other way.
She was probably going to lose the bet, but that was on her. Intel was pretty adamant that they were massing for a planet-wide assault on the Marine and MDS positions.
Hell, Omega Division probably has assets in the assaults.
So, now it was the waiting. Rev wondered why they didn’t move out to engage,
to disrupt them before the assault. That was what was part and parcel to Marine doctrine.
“Wish they’d have waited until after chow,” Strap said. “Just as they get the fabricators running, we’re back to D-rats.”
He rummaged in his assault pack and pulled out a meal tube. He looked at the label and frowned. “Anyone want to trade for a Rotted Dick?”
No one said a word. Most of the combat rats sucked, but the Trieste Sausage, aka Rotted Dick, was particularly vile.
“Tulip? How about you?”
Badem just shook his head.
“Miko? I’ll let you lower your bet to ninety if you trade.”
Rev turned to see what Tomiko would say, and for a second, she looked like she’d accept before the real Tomiko returned.
“Why would I do that? I’m gonna win.”
Strap rolled his eyes and gave up, opening the tube and sucking out a mouthful.
“Incoming,” the speaker in the bunker announced.
Every bunker was hard-wired even if the Children of Angels hadn’t shown any EMP capabilities.
“Here we go. Get ready to pay up,” Strap said.
“They’re not here yet. They have to cross the FEBA,” Tomiko said.
“They’re almost there already.”
Rev pulled up the Forward Edge of the Battle Area, which in this case was Austin Avenue. Strap was right. The leading elements of the CofAs were only half-a-block away from it. Tomiko was going to lose her bet. He switched back to normal view.
“Cut the chatter,” the staff sergeant said. “We’ve got incoming.”
“Not that it’s going to do much to us in here,” Nix muttered.
There was a slight womp, followed by two more. Rev checked his display. Eighty-twos, and landing on the other side of the spaceport. The 82mm mortars were spread throughout human space. While some of the rounds could be deadly, even to armored Marines, they couldn’t do much to them in the bunkers.
“Harassment fire,” the staff sergeant said.
“Hey, pull up Channel Six,” Yazzie said.
