Jack saw an enemy soldier aim a rocket launcher for the marine barricade, was about to tell the group around him to swim for it. The man with the rocket pitched forward, then several more attackers around him fell as gunfire crackled from further down the docks to the left.
Jack shifted where he lay to get a look, half expecting to see more enemies. Instead, he watched as olive-green soldiers poured from between two of the warehouses and onto the docks. Relief surged through Jack as the newcomers moved behind cover and blasted toward the enemy attackers.
Thank God for the Army!
The marines, no longer pinned down, launched another salvo of grenades. Caught between the fire of the marines and the newcomers, the enemy ranks withered. Jack saw a pair of green-clad soldiers drop a machine gun into its tripod and then open fire on the confused hostiles. As many as a hundred of the newcomers were on the waterfront now, some of them surging forward in short rushes to the marine positions while others ripped the enemies apart with machine gun and rifle fire. A rocket from one of the newcomers detonated among the ranks of the enemies, who turned and fled up the docks, only a few pockets of them remaining, firing blindly.
As Jack watched, a short, dark woman at the head of the group — an officer maybe — jumped over a pile of crates concealing two of the remaining enemies. She shot one of them at point blank range, and when the other swung his rifle at her, she ducked and drove the point of her bayonet through his chest. The marines were up and out from behind the barricade now, joining the charge forward after the fleeing enemies, who were two hundred yards up the dock, tossing their rifles aside and running as hard as they could.
Suddenly, the woman — yes, she had to be an officer — held up her hand. The charging soldiers stopped in their tracks and went to cover. A heartbeat later, Jack heard a sound that almost made him want to cry. It was the boom of approaching fighters.
The docks where the enemy soldiers were running were ripped to pieces in a hail of gunfire. Three enormous explosions obscured the enemies in flames, and a fourth a second later blasted the section of shoreline where they stood into fragments. Jack heard cheers and looked over at the marines and newcomers, who raised their rifles as a squadron of Stallions and Sparrowhawk fighters from the Verdun screamed overhead, their graceful forms catching the dying sunlight.
Jack stood, helped his crewmembers to their feet. They were in one piece, mostly. Cuts, a minor bullet wound, very afraid. Nothing serious. Jack glanced back up the dock, saw the bodies of the three crewmembers who’d been shot during the dash for the tenders. One was still clutching his leg, but the other two — and some of the marines at the barricade…
A pair of brown boots and khaki gaiters entered Jack’s field of vision. “Are you in charge here?”
Jack looked up to see the woman who had led the counterattack walking toward him, her rifle canted toward the ground, Major Osterman and another officer from the newcomers, lanky and tall, a few steps behind her.
“Yes,” Jack said, straightening up, his voice tight from the smoke drifting from the obliterated docks. Realizing he’d only croaked the word, Jack fought the stinging smoke and shouted. “Yes, I’m in command.”
“I’m Lieutenant Christine Flores.”
Jack held out his hand. The woman looked at it for a moment before taking it and shaking roughly.
“We owe you infantry our thanks,” Jack said.
“We’re not infantry. We’re rangers. Third Company, Fifth and Third Platoons.”
“Whoever you are,” Jack said, taken aback by Flores’ abrupt response, “we have a problem.”
Lieutenant Flores pursed her lips, nodded. “That’s the first smart thing I’ve heard all day.”
Chapter Seven
“Your inaction nearly cost these people their entire landing party!” Colonel Neville stood from his spot at the Verdun’s briefing room table, wishing he could jump over it and backhand the two rangers across from him. Instead, he leaned forward, working every ounce of rage he felt into his voice. “What is your excuse for delaying so long?”
Lieutenant Flores and Lieutenant Squires, standing at attention near at the head of the table, next to the captain, Morden, looked straight ahead into space, but said nothing.
“Well?” Neville asked.
“Sir,” Squires began. “We broke from our position on the hill and engaged as soon as we determined that the enemy force intended to attack the landing party and that the two forces were not in collusion. We—”
“Wrong answer!” Neville slammed his fist on the table, making everyone in the room jump. Everyone except for Lieutenant Flores, who tensed her jaw slightly, but remained still. “You were hesitant and incompetent. Had you struck before the Verdun landed, you would not have needed to determine anything.”
“No, sir,” Flores said, meeting Neville’s gaze. The look in her eyes, of defiance and open disgust, made Neville even angrier, if that was possible.
“No?” Neville crossed his arms.
“No. We waited until the pack howitzers, which you ordered us to use, were in place. We couldn’t attack before the Verdun’s arrival—”
“How dare you blame me?” Neville spat, interrupting Flores. He wanted to throw something at her, kick her, hell, shoot her. “Do not implicate me in your failure to—”
“—Because of the nature of the orders we received from you.” Flores finished her sentence, her voice rising to match Neville’s. “We attacked as soon as we were able to.”
Neville bit his lip, fought to keep his breathing down. “You acted like a coward and disgraced the uniform you wear.” Neville saw something flash in Flores’ eyes, and a shiver of fear streaked through him.
“Control yourselves.” Captain Morden stood. “In case you’ve forgotten, this is my briefing room. You two will comport yourselves appropriately.” Morden fixed Neville with a frown. He wanted to laugh. Who did she think she was? Kensington was his station, an Army station. Besides, this Kim Morden was just a pretty little girl. Dark hair with big brown eyes, creamy pale skin, and curves in all the right places that showed even through her uniform jacket as she sat back in her chair. Unfortunately, regulations gave ranking naval officers operational command, even if they were little trollops.
Neville forced his face into a smile. “Of course, Captain. My apologies if the conduct of my officers offends you.” Neville sat down, folded his hands in front of him. “I assure you their incompetence will not go unpunished.”
“Frankly, Colonel,” the Commander seated to Morden’s right spoke up. “If we’re punishing incompetence, we’re going to start with you and your staff at the fort, not the lieutenants here.”
“Commander… Hansen, is it?” Neville softened his voice, tried to make it as friendly as he could. She wasn’t bad looking, either.
“Holsey,” the woman replied flatly, pointing to where her name was embroidered over her jacket pocket.
“Holsey,” Neville continued. “On what basis do you make this accusation?”
This was not going as Neville had planned. As soon as the Verdun had radioed the news of the ambush to the fort, Neville had ordered a jeep to drive him to the docks immediately. He’d known the rangers would blame it all on him. It was no secret that they didn’t appreciate his being in command of them while they waited for a new officer. Flores in particular had mouthed off to him more than once in the past, and he hadn’t wanted her to poison the opinion of Verdun’s crew against him. When Squires and Flores had tried to keep him from coming to the docks by saying it might not be safe to drive there after nightfall, Neville had known they were definitely trying to undermine him.
He’d ordered his driver to push through anyway, glowering at the dark walls of forest on either side of the main road paralleling the rail line to the docks. When he’d finally arrived at the dockyards — unharmed, exactly as he’d known he would — some ranger private had held his jeep back. He’d had to wait an hour while the rangers and Verdun marines secured t
he dockland and checked over the supply train to make sure bad guys weren’t hiding in it, or something like that. They’d found the bodies of the dockworkers and the train’s crew, but no enemies. Sure, it had been frightening seeing the rangers carry the corpses off the train, but not worth wasting his time. When he’d finally made it aboard the Verdun, he’d found Flores and Squires exactly where he’d known they would be, talking up the command staff with their version of events.
Neville was the same as any other officer. He wanted to earn a living and advance in rank. He’d worked hard after the academy, moving up in rank as a supply officer during the war. But peacetime had wrecked his ambitions. The Army had chosen a trash dump like Kensington for him to command, but Neville was determined to get away from it. He wouldn’t let some dirt-covered, unbathed ranger and Captain Tits ruin his chances and blame him for something that wasn’t his fault.
“Your station did not inform us there was a danger present until after wasting time on an identification procedure.”
“By which time we were already on the shore,” added the lieutenant commander. Wilcox was his name.
The tall marine, a Major Osterman, who was seated between Wilcox and Lieutenant Voth, the Verdun’s master-at-arms, nodded. “And under fire.”
Neville’s head buzzed. He swallowed hard to suppress his rising annoyance. “We followed standard identification procedures, which—”
“Which still allow you to divulge the existence of a potential danger so long as the details given do not compromise your own safety or strategic interests,” Holsey said.
Neville couldn’t help but sneer. “I’ve read the regulation, Commander.”
Holsey looked like she was about to say more, but Morden interrupted. “Good. Then it should be obvious to you why we should have known about the enemy presence sooner.”
They had already judged him. Neville could see it in their eyes. “What you are missing, Captain, is that your crew would not have needed rescuing if the lieutenants here had done their job earlier and attacked.”
“Which we were delayed in doing because of your orders to wait for the howitzers,” Flores said, sounding almost bored.
Neville was about to stand up again, but Major Osterman beat him to it.
“As far as I’m concerned,” Osterman began, his deep voice quiet and yet somehow filling the room, “these rangers saved our lives today. Since the ambush, I’ve seen the area they ran from, the woods behind the warehouses and the hill beyond.” Osterman turned to Morden. “We were under fire on the beach for only a couple minutes. For the rangers to pack up, maneuver into position, and then attack in that time was a fine display of skill.”
“I’d say,” Voth raised a cup of coffee in the direction of the rangers. “A damn fine show.”
“Thank you, sir.” Squires piped up, sounding more than a little nervous.
Osterman took a seat, nodding over at Squires and Flores, whose face remained hard and unreadable. Or was that satisfaction?
Neville’s disgust rose in his throat. Flores was winning. In her sweat-stained uniform and mud-caked boots, she was winning. Neville’s eyes caught movement at Flores’ side, from her left hand. Was she flipping him off? He stared at her hand, and saw her pressing her thumb against something on her left ring finger, before Morden’s voice brought his focus back to the meeting.
“It is my judgment that the lieutenants here acted as they should have. We lost four good people today, and it would have been more had they not intervened.” Morden fixed Neville with a hard glare. “Now, we have a lot of work to do here, and trying to assign blame is a waste of our time.”
Neville grit his teeth, looking for a way out, and found one. He split his face into a smile. “Of course, Captain. You have my apologies for the unpleasant afternoon. I will work with my staff at the fort to correct their error in protocol. They should have warned you sooner, and they will be made aware of their mistake.”
From the other side of the table, he thought he heard Holsey scoff.
“Please continue with the meeting,” Neville finished, averting his eyes from Morden’s glare and pretending to examine something on his screen.
No, this hadn’t gone well at all.
Chapter Eight
“Let’s run through this again.” Lt. Commander Wilcox stood at the head of the table beside Captain Morden, pointing at a view screen built into the wall that displayed an overhead map of the Kensington complex.
Christine examined the map from where she sat, between Commander Holsey and Squires. Anything to not look at Neville, who was all smiles where he was seated on the other end of the table. Christine noted that many of the patrol trails were missing from the map, but she doubted whoever had drawn it had known about them. Probably some survey crew who hadn’t climbed a mountain in their lives. Still, all the other details were there. The dark U of the dockyards lining the harbor and the primary warehouses directly behind them; the rugged hills rising almost from the shore, the couple hundred or so bunkers and infantry shelters capping their summits; the web of small roads and narrow-gauge rail lines connecting them together and to the fort; the massive secondary warehouse complex, midway between the dockyards and the fort along the main line; the old barracks, off by itself several miles north of the secondary warehouses; and the fort, a huge pentagon shape some twenty miles east of the docks and perched atop a plateau just to the west of the jagged mountain range, where communications antennas bristled and another set of bunkers guarded the fort’s rear.
Combined with the air-to-space missile silos that dotted the complex and the rest of the planet, it was a formidable network of fortifications. Or at least it had been twenty years ago, before most the weapons had been stripped from the bunkers and the fort, and almost all the silos had been removed, leaving deep pits scattered through the forest.
“At approximately oh-nine-hundred hours,” Wilcox said, his voice bringing Christine’s attention back to the meeting. “The RAS Barracuda, the destroyer scheduled for service today, lands in the harbor.”
“We didn’t know it was there until it had already landed,” Neville chimed in. “We’re experiencing issues with our communications relay.”
“We know,” Holsey muttered under her breath. She gave Christine a small smile, and Christine realized she’d been the only one Holsey had intended to hear. Christine gave Holsey a slight nod, sensing that, under the desk officer’s uniform, there was a real warrior.
“Until it’s repaired, we have a serious problem,” Voth was saying. “We can’t relay a radio message for help, and the nearest working post is a few days away at top speed.”
The group was silent for a moment as they considered it. Christine hadn’t known this. Guilt tugged at her. She was still working on her latest letter to Ryan. If the relays were down, it may be a while before she could send it, assuming she got the chance. Kensington was far off the beaten path. Without communication relays, they might as well be totally alone.
Wilcox cleared his throat. “At oh-nine-fifteen, the fort orders the train from the secondary warehouses to the docks. It arrives sometime later, but the crew is attacked and killed.”
“Or they were killed at the secondary warehouses. We won’t know until we check them.” Major Osterman leaned back in his chair, his face grim. “It was very dangerous for you to drive by that area tonight, Colonel.”
Neville’s face reddened, but his composure didn’t break. “I’m beginning to understand that.”
Christine doubted it.
“The attackers hijack the cargo tenders docked at the port, and at approximately ten-thirty hours, they attack the Barracuda.” Wilcox pointed at the harbor on the map, his voice tinged with anger.
“How do we know they stole the tenders and didn’t bring them from elsewhere?” Holsey crossed her arms, raised an eyebrow.
“The station’s compliment is missing, for one thing,” Wilcox answered.
Squires nodded. “And we saw them transporting
the enemies off the beach when we arrived.”
“A cargo tender has limited weapons,” Lieutenant Voth said, taking a sip of his coffee. “But they do have air-to-air and air-to-ground rockets that could damage a small ship’s more vulnerable systems.”
Wilcox pointed on the map to the saddle between the two hills where Christine had first heard the explosions. “They certainly did enough damage to the destroyer that Lieutenant Flores sees the smoke plume from her position with Fifth Platoon, about ten miles inland, here, at around….” Wilcox looked over at Christine.
“Eleven hundred, sir.”
“However,” Wilcox went on. “By the time Fifth Platoon meets Third near the dockyards at around fifteen hundred, the destroyer is completely gone, and only three hundred combatants are still occupying the area.”
“Could it have exploded?” Neville rested his elbows on the table.
“An explosion from the fusion reactor on a ship that size would have incinerated everything for miles,” Morden said, shaking her head. “Maybe it just sank.”
“Possibly,” Wilcox agreed, eyeing the harbor on the map, as if he was trying to see through it. “We’ll need to sonar map the seafloor to be certain.”
“What if someone carried if off?” Christine felt all eyes turn toward her.
“Do you think they packed it through the bush, Lieutenant?” Neville smirked at her.
Christine ignored him and looked at Morden instead. “I… saw something through my binoculars. Something hovering in the smoke.”
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