BattleMaster (The BattleMaster Corps Book 1)

by Nathaniel Danes

  Veech planted the rifle barrel against the back of Fred’s head. “Tell your friends everything is fine. There was a minor attack, but your boys snuffed it out.”

  “I understand. I will do as you ask. Just...just, please don’t hit me anymore.”

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  The barrel pushed Fred’s head down. “Keep it simple. If I think for a second you gave them a code word, you’re dead. If we hear or see any reinforcements coming, I promise you will be the first one killed. Got it?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  Fred took the chair and closed his eyes for a second as he breathed deeply. His hands stopped shaking but sweat kept coming out of his pores. He cleared his throat and clicked on the alert box, audio only.

  He went back and forth with the man on the other end of the line. She again cursed herself for not learning German. She locked eyes with Veech and he nodded to assure her the conversation was going to his liking.

  She used the spare seconds to give her full attention to her drones. They were in fine shape, though the aerial unit would need a refuel in short order.

  Fred tapped a key to close the com-link and leaned back, sighing out a mountain of stress.

  “What did you tell them?” Stephanie stared down at him.

  “Just what you told me to say.” Fred massaged his temples. “We had a problem but dealt with it. All is good and we’ll be moving closer to the front soon. No one is coming here.”

  Veech slung the rifle onto his back and pulled out the pistol. “You did good. They seemed to buy it, but if anyone does come, you’re the first to die. Now.” The pistol’s hammer clicked as it cocked in place. “About that other thing.”

  Stephanie rested a hand on Fred’s shoulder and smiled. A little charm can go a long way. “This land-train’s main function is drone support, right?”

  Fred nodded. “Initial deployment, major repair, and supply reserve.”

  Her smile widened. “So you must then have access to command’s backdoor into the drone control.” She put her other hand on top of his. “You know, a failsafe in case a BattleMaster goes rogue.”

  Fred stared at her hand on his. “No. There is no backdoor. At least not one that I am aware of.”

  Stephanie didn’t move her body but shifted her eyes to Veech. The sergeant took two heavy steps, slamming his heels onto the floor for effect.

  “Wait, wait!” Fred throw his arms up. “There’s no need for that. I’ll tell you anything you want to know, but I can’t make up something that doesn’t exist or that I don’t know about!”

  She leaned in, reestablishing her grips with greater pressure. “You’re telling me you can’t disrupt your people’s control of the drones?”

  A deep red tone returned to Fred’s skin. He smacked his lips to bring moisture to his dry mouth. “Why would I be able to do that? Why would anyone install such a program? It makes no sense.”

  She studied him, squeezed him harder and nodded. She stood and crossed her arms. “The man has a point.”

  She always thought the idea of a Magic Box was silly. After all, why would you install a backdoor your enemy could use to take out your best weapon system? The hope that the Euros had been so stupid was a long shot at best and she believed Fred, that there wasn’t one to his knowledge.

  Stephanie regarded Veech. “Now what?”

  “So you think he’s right?”

  She bobbed her head. “Yeah. I believe him — for now.”

  “Well, shit.” Veech paced, keeping watch on the prisoner. “He has to know something useful.”

  She sat on the edge of the desk. “Explain how you protect against jamming the link between controller and machine.”

  Fred turned his palms up. “Probably a lot like how you do it. Keep the controllers on line-of-sight positions and close enough for the signal to breakthrough broadband jamming. And we switch frequencies based on the standard algorithm.”

  She cocked her head. “Standard. What do you mean by standard?”

  Fred shrugged. “We use the same system to change frequencies for all of our units.”

  Stephanie shot to her feet. “You mean they change as a group, not individually?”

  “Yes, they do it as a whole.” Fred raised his eyebrows. “You do it differently?”

  Veech stopped pacing. “What does that mean, lieutenant?”

  She walked around to the front of the desk, organizing her thoughts. “Our protocols are different. It’s a bitch to set up but … well, we do it differently.” She gripped the edge of the desk. “If what he is saying is right, they do it in mass.”

  “So?” Veech shrugged.

  “So,” Stephanie half laughed as she said it, “we’re in a drone support vehicle. We know the original frequency and we know how they change it.” She extended her arms, smiling broadly. “Meaning we know what frequency they’re operating on now and what they will be.”

  Veech waved a hand back and forth. “Hold up. You’re telling me that we don’t need some magic backdoor to give ‘em fits?”

  She snorted. “Yeah. Don’t get me wrong. A Magic Box to take control of their units would be awesome, but knowing their operating frequencies is the next best thing. Give ‘em fits, sarge? Hell, we can drive ‘em bat-shit crazy with this.”

  “Okay.” Veech put his arms on his hips. “What do we do next?”

  She jerked her head toward Fred. “First, grab our friend. We’re taking a walk to the bay so he can use his access code to get what we need. Then we’re gonna turn this war around.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A coughing fit hit Olsen as he sat on a muddy strip of high ground inside the POW camp. He thought a lung might pop out, but the fit passed. The spasms had knocked his rain guard off. With a tug, he returned the sheet of plastic back on top of his head. The rain had started the night before and gave no sign of stopping.

  His stomach growled. When are we gonna eat?

  The rain made life miserable for the Euro guards as well, and they compensated by not venturing out to throw their captives protein bars for dinner or breakfast. It had to be lunch by now and there was still no sign they’d be fed.

  Olsen had spent his life afraid. Afraid of raising his hand in class. Afraid of asking a girl out. Even too afraid to send back a wrong order at a restaurant. However, for reasons he didn’t understand, he wasn’t afraid now.

  What had happened? Maybe the crucible of combat had forged him into a man. Perhaps the humiliation he endured at the hands of his new masters was finally the tipping point.

  No, that’s not it. You bastards killed Stanner, the only real friend I’ve ever had. I have to stand up for myself, now. Stand up for his memory.

  The one person he’d always been able to count on was dead. He realized then and there that he’d used Stanner as a crutch, a stand-in for his own courage.

  He narrowed his gaze, staring at the guards as fat rain drops pelleted his shield.

  Seeing them laughing, dry, and eating inside their tent made him mad. That was nothing new. He’d been mad before, but this was the first time he’d ever been more mad than afraid.

  Olsen tossed off the tarp and stood. The rain soaked his hair and shoulders. Streams of water flowed around his boiling eyes. His fists clinched.

  “What are you doing?” a nameless voice asked.

  Ignoring it, he marched to the fence line that ran in front of the guards’ tent. His footfalls turned up mud and splashed into puddles. He didn’t notice.

  A guard caught sight of him with a glance and turned to face him. He nudged the man next to him in the ribs and he turned to silently stare. Their laughter stopped as all seven studied his approach with a mixture of anger and confusion on their faces.

  Olsen gripped the fence, threading his fingers through the wire. This was stupid, beyond stupid. He knew that and yet didn’t give a damn. Today he would be heard.

  “When are you feeding us?”

  The guards s
hared looks and chuckles.

  A sergeant crossed his arms. He was tall with a barrel chest. “What’s it to you?”

  “We have a right to eat.” Olsen shook the fence, rattling metal against metal. “You can’t starve us! It’s illegal. A treaty violation!”

  The exclamation sent the thugs into a fit of belly laughing. A few even doubled over from the effort.

  It enraged Olsen. He refused to be ignored. The chain-link mesh bounced violently, sending a chorus of clanks and tings into the air. “You have to feed us!”

  The sergeant came to him and slapped his knuckles with a wooden rod. “That’s enough.”

  Pain hit him like an electrical shock. He jumped back, crying in agony as he cradled his hands.

  “Be quiet and leave the perimeter. I won’t be so gentle the next time.”

  Olsen’s teeth sounded like a millstone grinding corn. The urge to run made his legs twitch.

  No! I’ve run my whole life. I’m done being afraid.

  He lunged for the fence and took hold of it. The suddenness of the movement staggered the sergeant backward. “Feed us! Feed us! Feed us!” The woven wires surged back and forth.

  The sergeant’s face twisted into a portrait of anger and red with rage. “I warned you.”

  Olsen locked eyes. “Feed us! Feed us! Feed us!”

  “Feed us! Feed us!” The chant rose up from behind Olsen. “Feed us! Feed us!”

  He looked back. Every POW was on their feet and pumping a fist in the air as they shouted. “Feed us!”

  A curious feeling warmed his belly.

  A smile formed as he realized what it was. Pride. For the first time in Olsen Rosewood’s life, he was proud of himself. All of his life he’d been too scared to stand up for himself, and now he was standing up for others.

  It was insanely stupid. Deep down, he knew that much but it didn’t matter. That warm feeling in his gut flowed to every corner of his soul.

  Olsen turned back to the guards and raised his fist. “Feed us!”

  The head bully muttered something in German to the gathering group of guards and gestured toward Olsen.

  Three guards peeled off and jogged to a gate. Seconds later they were carrying Olsen out by his arms. His toes pointed down into the muddy earth, digging a pair of tiny trenches.

  He landed with a gulp at the feet of the towering hulk of a man. His knees sank two inches into the muck.

  The chanting stopped. The sound of pounding rain was all he heard over the internal thunder of his racing heart.

  “You shouldn’t have pushed me.” The guard pulled a pistol from its hostler. “Now I have to make an example of you or risk a riot.”

  Olsen’s mind spun. He was about to die and wasn’t sure how he had gotten here. Why didn’t I just stay quiet. “It’s — it’s a war crime.” He barely had enough breath to eke out the desperate protest.

  “What?”

  Olsen’s hand trembled. “You can’t just shoot POWs. It’s a war crime.”

  Laughter boomed from the man as he chambered a round. The metal on metal clicks seemed to sound off in slow motion. “Winners don’t get charged with war crimes. This war is almost over and no one will come around asking what happened to little old you.”

  He leveled the barrel at Olsen’s head.

  Olsen slammed his eyelids shut and grimaced, bracing himself for the end. Don’t cry. Whatever you do, don’t cry. Don’t give them that.

  A faint rumble cut through the rain. It grew louder. Its appearance froze his execution like hitting the pause button on a video.

  German words were tossed between the guards and he heard boots stumping in the mud. Something was up. Something had given him a reprieve, for now.

  The rumble became a roar of an engine. Strong hands grasped his upper arms and pulled him to his feet. He dared to open his eyes and look around. One of them was talking on a radio and relaying information to the other guards, who scrambled to organize equipment and straighten up inside the tent like they were doing a hurried cleaning.

  “What the...”

  A vehicle crested a hill and headed for the camp. He squinted to make it out. It was a Euro land-train, a support unit. It was shorter than he remembered from photos and its skin was peppered with damage.

  That’s odd. It’s coming from their rear area? Did we surprise it with an attack somewhere?

  Dozens of triangular tracks tore into the soft ground, flinging black clumps into the air. The roar of its engine dominated his hearing. The stunted snake bent itself as it curved around the camp and came to a stop thirty yards from Olsen.

  The soft hum of an idling motor replaced the mechanical thunder. A ramp slid out and plowed inches deep. The guards whispered and lined up, standing tall with their chests out.

  Olsen was expecting to see a general march out but a mini-tank rattled down the slab. Its armor was pitted and blackened from combat. He cocked his head and scanned the guards’ faces. They looked as perplexed as he was.

  The drone rolled off and paused. He could feel the tension in the air grow thick. The twin-fifty turret spun to face them and its intentions were clear.

  “Holy shit!”

  The double-barreled beast barked before he could hit the floor.

  Shouts and screams from the terrified guards were muted by the devastating assault. Men ran in every direction in search of anything to hide behind, but it was useless. Not only had they been caught in the open, but they’d lined themselves up like pawns on a chess board.

  It wasn’t a battle; it was a massacre.

  Most fell within the first second as the fifties panned across the line with continuous fire. Now the tank hurtled focused bursts at those lucky enough to escape the initial barrage, to only die moments later.

  Some did find cover, but it was too frail to withstand the streams of steel. The screams and cries grew fewer. The tank fired less and less until it became a statue.

  Nothing save the rain made any noise.

  The tank’s treads turned to carry it on a search pattern through the guard’s tents. The turret fired now and then in short bursts.

  He kept his gaze trained on the ramp, expecting some new horror to emerge. What he saw next took his breath away.

  Stanner and Sergeant Veech ran out, crouching low with rifles raised. The rain ceased and sky lightened in an almost mystical fashion.

  Stanner dropped to a knee. “We’re Americans! This is a rescue!”

  Stanner and Veech split in different directions. Veech headed for the camp’s gate and Stanner came directly for Olsen.

  A miniature wall of mud had formed in front of Olsen, the product of involuntary movements he’d made during the firefight as if his body was instinctively trying to dig a hole to hide in.

  It had done nothing to shield him from the storm of projectiles. It seemed dumb luck had done that. It did keep Stanner from recognizing him. The fact he was paralyzed with shock also helped him appear as just another corpse.

  Stanner was five yards away and preparing to pass. Olsen took a deep breath to clear his mind and choked out, “Wait!”

  The barrel of Stanner’s weapon swirled and aimed down at him. “Don’t move.”

  “No, no... it’s me. Olsen.” He rolled onto his side with palms open. “It’s me, buddy.”

  His friend’s face lit up with a smile that reflected a strand of sunshine burning through the cloud layer. “Is that you?” He stepped closer. “Get up, man.”

  Olsen kept his hands out, working his knees under him and standing.

  “Crap, it really is you.” Stanner lowered his rifle as the mini-tank completed its search and pulled up to him. “How did you get yourself captured? Sorry I didn’t see you. Your uniform is so muddied up I couldn’t tell you from these Euro pricks.”

  “It’s a long story, but I’m sure it’s not nearly as interesting as yours.” Olsen glanced at the land-train. “What the hell?”

  Stanner shrugged. “We took a big chance and it paid off.
I’ll tell you all about it over a beer when we get back to base.”

  “I think I’ll need a whole case of beer after this.”

  “I hear you.” Stanner moved in and wrapped his arms around Olsen. “It’s damn good to see you’re okay. I thought you might’ve bought it somewhere. I hear things aren’t going good for our side.”

  Olsen hugged him back. Having Stanner with him felt like slipping on an old pair of shoes. He could feel himself reverting back to the nervous, scared boy he had been before he was forced to be his own man. “I didn’t see how you could still be alive. Thank you for making it and for arriving just in time. They were about to shoot me in the head.”

  Stanner pulled away. “What are friends for?”

  The collection of POWs was out and loitering around the ramp. Olsen regarded them. “Can you get us back to our lines?”

  “That’s just it.” Stanner shook his head. “Pretty soon we won’t have any lines anywhere on this planet. We’re about to lose the entire war if we don’t do something … dramatic.”

  “Oh, so this wasn’t just a rescue.”

  “Nope, it was a recruitment drive. We need your help. It will be dangerous. I’d be surprised if any of us make it.” Stanner slapped his arm. “We could really use you. You up for it?”

  Olsen stared at his friend. Stanner’s head pulled back from the intensity of the gaze. No matter how much he wanted to be the same kid who’d leaned on Stanner for strength, he wasn’t anymore. He’d been through too much. The hardness had sunk in too deep.

  The change was showing in his eyes. They are the windows into the soul, after all, and they were displaying to his lifelong friend that he’d changed.

  Stanner recovered from his reaction. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Never been better.” Olsen turned toward the land-train. “Let’s take it to those bastards.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  General Kyle Mendez strolled along the line of foxholes and heavy weapons emplacements with a heavy heart. He feared Samantha was right, the battle and war was over. They’d lost.