His face was red, and he was breathing heavily. Shaan and Spig each took a step closer to the captain as if they thought Juarez was going to attack her.
Captain Lysander slowly turned to look at the IS Team leader, then simply said, “We’re going to kill the bastard.”
Chapter 48
68
Twenty minutes later, eight teams slid out the escape hatch on the southeast side of the building. The shot that had killed Corporal Espinoza had come from the other side of the station, so this gave them a chance to get out and under cover while unseen—provided there were not more than one of them, or that the sniper had not moved quickly to another vantage point. All 16 Marines, though, made it out and into the vegetation. Each team had its own corridor in which to move, and two teams were to take overwatch positions close to the station, but other than that, the other six teams were on their own.
Gracie was ready for a long stalk. She didn’t know where the opposing sniper was or if he was even still in the area, but it was going to take a while to find out.
She and Dutch were basically going up the gut. They had to circle around the station, then start forward. If the enemy sniper were still in his position, then she and Dutch would be the most exposed. The slightest mistake and they’d be spotted.
The foundation upon which the station sat gave them a degree of cover, so the two were able to scoot around fairly quickly until they were abreast of the main building. Then Gracie signaled Dutch that is was low-crawl time. She adjusted her elbow and knee pads, and the two commenced their stalk. She knew that for the next 120 meters, their stalk would be relatively easy. The ground was covered with the toilet seats, whose broad fans completely concealed the ground. Unless they got too high or rubbed up against any of the central stalks, they should remain out of sight of any observer. After that, things would get more problematic, and she’d decide what to do then.
The two Marines had barely moved forward ten meters when the muffled report of a shot reached them under the toilet seats. Gracie froze, adjusting the contrast of her display to see what had happened.
Hell! Brooke’s hit!
Brooke and Rez were on the other side of the station, not even into their stalk yet. They shouldn’t be visible to anyone from their position, but Brooke was hit in the leg. Gracie waited for a moment to see if her avatar was going to gray out, but it mercifully stayed a light blue. Unlike the bulkier enviro suits the troopers wore, the HED 2s did not have the same degree of ability to close off breaches, and as they were designed for hazardous environments, if the damage done was great enough, the suites attempted to save the life of the wearer by killing him or her. The theory was that exposure in a toxic environment could be more damaging and decrease the likelihood of a successful resurrection and regeneration, so stopping all bodily functions kept the poisons from contaminating the body.
That was all well and good in theory, but even without further complications and not considering whatever damage a body had sustained, resurrection still had a 3% failure rate just from the process itself. It was better never to die in the first place.
“Francisco, get Mahmout back to the station. The rest of you, keep your friggin’ heads down!” the captain passed on the command circuit.
Gracie looked back and caught Dutch’s eyes. He shrugged, and the two started moving forward again. Gracie didn’t know what mistake Brooke had made, but she was lucky only to be hit in the leg.
It was easy to get into a mind-numbing routine: reach out with her arms and one knee, pull and push forward, repeat as needed. But any routine became dangerous. She had to keep her mind sharp.
Another shot rang out, but no one was hit. For a sniper who had shown skill in Espinoza’s head shot, he had now racked up a hit in a leg and a miss. Maybe the head shot had been luck. That gave Gracie a little more confidence—not enough to relax or take chances, but still, it was a welcomed thought.
That warm and fuzzy came crashing down when the report of a third shot reached them. This time, the avatar when immediately gray. It was Spig McConnaughy.
“Spig’s dead!” T-Bone passed. “Head shot! I don’t think he can be brought back! We’re still under cover, and there’s no way we were spotted!”
“All teams halt!” the captain passed. “Freeze in place.”
Gracie and Dutch had only moved forward 60 meters or so. They were still under the heavy fans of the toilet bowls, so she knew they were out of visuals. At a sudden suspicion, she toggled her display, then looked at Dutch. His HED 2 matched the ambient temperature perfectly, and he was putting out no electronic emissions.
“Check my temp,” she told him.
A few moments later, he gave her a thumbs up, and she let herself relax as she realized they were not giving off a temperature gradient. So she was surprised when a round pierced the toilet bowls to hit the dirt between Dutch and her. She immediately rolled to her right, stopping on her back just short of a particularly large plant. Dutch had rolled left and was on his stomach, hugging the dirt. He looked over to her with not quite fright, but certainly concern in his eyes.
“Stay still,” she mouthed at him.
One of them must have touched one of the plants, making it move, and the enemy sniper was probing the brush by fire. If she could only look forward, she might be able to spot him as he fired again.
She was looking at Dutch when the next round tore into his back at shoulder level. He didn’t make a sound as his avatar grayed out.
“All teams, immediate retrograde to the station. Do not continue!” the captain passed.
“Bullshit, Captain! I’m going to get that asshole,” T-Bone passed, anger flaring in his voice.
“That’s a negative, Staff Sergeant Tibone. You will return to the station.”
“We can’t back down!”
“That’s an order. Return to the station!”
Gracie didn’t listen to see what T-Bone would say. She scooted over to grab Dutch’s harness and started to drag him back, expecting to feel the hot touch of a round at any moment. But it didn’t come for her. It came for Bullpup Kneffer; it came for Marc Piccolo, but not for her. Twenty minutes later, she was struggling to dash to the entrance. Spec Potter ran out to help her with Dutch, and between them, they got him back inside the station.
It was a shocked group of Marines that straggled in. Two of them were WIA. Three were KIA, with Spig almost certainly beyond resurrection. Dr. Williams thought Dutch would make it, but with his spine shattered, he’d have a long, long time in regen, and spines were tricky about reaching a full recovery.
“What happened?” Bomba asked Gracie as they watched Dr. Williams send Dutch into stasis.
Gracie wasn’t sure what had happened, but she relayed to him the details the best that she could. She was trying to figure out what had given them away.
“Gunny Chun, Gunny Medicine Crow, to me,” the captain said once the dead and wounded were tended.
“What the hell happened out there?” she asked them, her eyes blazing.
“Whoever it is, he knew where we were,” Gracie said. “We were out of sight, and I just checked Dutch for a temperature gradient right before he engaged us.”
“Then how the hell could he spot you? You must have made a mistake!”
“CO2, ma’am. I think it was CO2,” Bomba said, breaking into the conversation.
“What?”
“Gunny Medicine Crow said she was on her back, but Dutch was on his stomach, so why did he get targeted and not her? I think it’s because our CO2 waste vents are here,” he said, reaching his arm around to point at the small vortex valve at the small of his back. “We’re pumping out CO2 with every breath. We’re recovering some of that O2 with the splitter unit on our back, of course, but not all of it, and that excess gets vented.”
“And here on this planet, with its screwed up atmosphere, that would stand out like a neon plume, if you have the right kind of scanner. I think he might be right, Captain,” Manny said.
“If that’s true, then how do we deal with it? It’s not like we can go out without our HEDs, and even if we could, we’re still breathing out CO2.”
“The IS Team’s suits don’t vent,” Manny said.
“You want to do a stalk in those?” Gracie asked him.
“Well, no, but what other options do we have?”
“The emergency hoods don’t vent, either, but those would be almost as bad to fight in. And they’ve got limited comms,” the captain said.
“Maybe I’ve got an answer, ma’am,” Bomba said. “But I’d need a bit of time to work it out. Can you give me 30 minutes?”
The captain looked at the two gunnies, who offered nothing, so she said, “You’ve got them.”
Bomba took his leave, then grabbed JC and pulled him into the supply closet.
“I hope he’s got something,” the captain remarked.
“We could always cut and run, you know, call in the shuttle,” Manny hesitantly offered.
“Marines don’t run,” the captain said automatically before softening her tone, “but if we can’t figure this out, we might have to consider it. I’m not going to get everyone killed for some bio-patent.”
Gracie knew how hard that was for an officer to say. This wasn’t the old Federation, where officers who surrendered were executed, but it would be a career-ending move, and even being the daughter of the late great General Lysander wouldn’t be enough to save her.
Gracie stepped back to check on the wounded. Dr. Williams had things well in hand and had done the most that could be done for them here at the station.
“Someone knows his shit, huh, Gunny?” Shaan quietly asked her as they both watched him finish up with Bill.
Gracie knew he was referring to the sniper, not the doctor.
“Just like we do.”
“Do you think he could be a Memitim?” he asked with a concerned tone.
“What makes you think that?” she asked, turning to look at the sergeant with a frown.
“You know, like how he, how he, you know, without seeing where any of us were.”
The Memitim were the shadowy enforcers of the will of the Brotherhood First Brother. Supposedly part sniper, part ninja, part assassin, they were culturally popular threads of the human tapestry, even if Gracie was sure that the flick-makers and novelists were exaggerating their capabilities. They were supposedly quite skilled, but so were Federation snipers.
According to ancient Abrahamic lore, the memitim were a type of angel who killed those who had fallen out of the protection of their guardian angels. They were God’s enforcers. Gracie didn’t buy the almost supernatural aspects some people projected onto the modern Memitim, but that didn’t mean she discounted their abilities. If that was a Memitim out there, then Bomba’s CO2 theory held more sway with her than any of their fictional abilities.
“It doesn’t matter who he—or she—is. We’re Marines, and people fear us, too—and for good reason.”
T-Bone’ ears perked up when he heard the word “Memitim.”
“You think it might be one of them?” he asked Gracie.
“Could be. Or maybe not. Don’t care much one way or the other.”
Gracie did care, but only with regards to knowing her enemy. If that was one of the Brotherhood’s best out there, she needed to know that to face him. But she didn’t want to start something that could sap the will of any of them, so she refused to react overtly to the possibility.
“Have you ever faced a Memitim?” he persisted.
“Yeah, right. In all the Federation-Brotherhood wars over the last 25 years, sure.”
The fact that the Federation and the Brotherhood had never been officially at war in their histories seemed to fly her sarcasm right over his head.
“So the great Gunnery Sergeant Gracie Crow, the holder of the record for the longest kill in history now, hasn’t managed that feat,” he said, his eyes alight with, what, a challenge? “And if I did, if I zeroed one, what would you say?”
“Look, Staff Sergeant Mubotono,” she said, putting a little steel in her voice, “this is not a competition. If you nail that guy out there, I’ll shake your hand and congratulate you. But remember, we’re a team, and we work as a team.”
“Oh, sure, Gunny. A team. But every team has a captain,” he said before stalking off.
“What’s got him all riled?” Shaan asked.
Gracie was tempted to chase T-Bone down and ask him the same thing, but there were more important things on her mind, so she let him go. Instead, she went to the supply closet and opened the door.
“What the heck?” she asked as she took in the sight of Bomba kneeling in front of JC.
The scene took her by surprise, and for an instant, she thought she’d broken in on a rather disappointing intimate moment before her mind registered that both were still in their HED 2s, and Bomba was wrapping duct tape around JC’s waist. Hanging from just above JC’s butt was a lump of something now covered with the same silver tape.
Bomba looked up with a smile and said, “I think it might work!”
“What in Mother Earth are you doing?” she asked, perplexed.
“The scrubbers. For the air in the station. We’ve got a year’s supply here. I’m just hooking them into JC’s ass and using the duct tape to make sure it stays there. There’s some leakage, sure, but I think most of the CO2 is making it into the scrubbers.”
“Not to mention if I fart!” JC said. “I think it scrubs rotten eggs, too.”
“I told you, that’s not in the same place. The CO2 is coming out of this little vent that takes it through the bubble. Your farts, they’re still inside of your suit, especially since I had to kind of tape over that other vent to make the scrubbers vent.”
JC rolled his eyes at Gracie and tried, unsuccessfully, to smother a laugh that Bomba didn’t seem to notice.
“Do you think it’ll work?” she asked Bomba.
“Yeah, I think so. We’ll want to test it, first, but yeah.”
Gracie waited until Bomba was satisfied, then she followed the two Marines out and back to the common room. Despite the bodies in stasis, despite their losses, the gathered Marines, troopers, and even Dr. Williams broke out into laughs. Even Gracie joined in. JC had to waddle slightly when he walked, and he looked like a baby who’d taken a dump in his diapers.
The captain stifled a smile as she asked Bomba to explain his contraption, and when he was done, she’d agreed they had to test it. One of the geeks ran into the lab for a piece of testing equipment, assuring the captain that it would pick out CO2.
The captain, the two gunnies, Bomba, T-Bone, Rez, and of course JC, exited the station from the same southwest side hatch. The captain motioned for JC to take a few steps away and then aimed the small scanner at him.
“Jump up and down,” she passed to him.
He did a few jumps, then dropped to his belly and jumped back up.
“Not bad,” she said on the open circuit. A little leakage, but minimal. I think this might work. OK, everyone back inside.”
With the news that the CO2 was masked, the captain ordered everyone to get their own “fart catcher,” as JC was insisting they call it, installed. And the first one would be hers.
“I’m going out with you,” she said when both gunnies raised their eyebrows at that.
“Look, we’re missing too many of us. I can work out ranges and environmentals. I can be a spotter.”
“So can I, Captain,” Biming Lum said. “Let me go, too. I don’t have an HED, but I don’t need one of those fart-catchers, either.”
She only hesitated a moment before nodding at the trooper.
“If he’s going, so am I,” Sergeant First Class Juarez said.
“No, you’re not. I need to you here in command. If anything happens to us out there, I need you to call in the shuttle and get off the planet.”
The
IS Team leader seemed to be about to argue, but when the captain said “command,” that seemed to immediately mollify him.
Bomba became the group armorer, personally taping each one of them up. It took an hour, but after Juarez had taped the last one on him, they were ready to go.
The captain called them in to go over the plan once more. It hadn’t changed much, but with people missing, there had to be adjustments. She was going to take the place of Dutch and be Gracie’s spotter, Lum was going to be Rez’ spotter, and the both of them were going to hang back and provide overwatch. Without a spotter, T-Bone would take the Barrett and stay back as well, ready to engage if he saw anything.
“Get a last drink and a bite to eat if you want,” the captain said. “Don’t forget to take a shit, too. With the duct tape on our asses, better to do it now since we don’t have any FIBs.”
Bomba had said he thought that if really needed, the duct tape could be rolled up a bit far enough to uncover the anal vent, but the captain was right. Better to do it now than out in the field.
It took almost 45 minutes to get everyone fed, through the station’s two heads, and through their weapons checks, but finally, everyone was ready. Manny took a head count as everyone moved to the exit.
“Who am I missing?” he asked. “I’m down one.”
Gracie looked around counting heads when Shaan said, “It’s T-Bone.”
“Check the other rooms,” she said as the captain powered up her suit, bringing up her display.
“Shit!” the captain said. “He’s out there already.”
Gracie powered up as well, and there, some 400 meters from the station, T-Bone’s blue avatar shone brightly.
“Staff Sergeant Mubotono, what are you doing?” the captain sent on the command circuit.
There was no answer.
“Tibone, you’re in some deep shit. Hold up,” Gracie passed on the P2P.
“Sorry Gunny. You don’t get all the fun. I’m the best man for the job, and you know it. And I don’t need 15 minions scrambling around messing things up. It’s me and him, like it should be. When I zero him, everyone will know I’m the best sniper in the Corps, not some lucky PC asswipe like you.”
Sniper (Women of the United Federation Marines Book 2) Page 25
