Algal Springs, Serhati
Michael was not in good shape.
It was hot in the morning sun. It was dry. Food was running short. Water from the nearest spring was limited, its miserable flow delivering only enough to keep thirst at bay, never enough to clean up, to wash away some of the filth that encrusted his body. He stank: a sour mix of sweat, blood, burned rock, gun smoke, and dust. His body hurt, all of it. He was exhausted, his reserves of energy drained by the constant need to stay vigilant, to change their hiding place every night, to keep moving. With every fiber in his body, Michael wanted nothing more than to lie back and daydream the day away, but he would not trust the Hammers farther than he could spit. Nothing would convince him they had given up.
So he stood his watches: four hours on, eight hours off, the tumbled fall of rock in front of his position soon so deeply imprinted on his mind, he probably could draw it with his eyes closed. Bored he might be, but inattentive he was not. With scrupulous care, he scanned the approaches to their position endlessly.
For the fourth day in a row, nothing moved except dust devils and the occasional bird turning slowly in the hot morning air. Even the surveillance drones had gone home. He had not seen one for two days.
A shower of pebbles from behind him made him start; he swung around, raising his rifle, even though he knew it was Kallewi.
“Relax,” the marine said, sliding into position alongside him, Willems following close behind.
“I will,” Michael said sourly, “when we get off this godforsaken planet.”
“Well, in that regard, I have good news. In ten hours, a Fed task group will jump in-system, beat the shit out of the Keflavik Bay, and drop a marine assault force onto Hajek Barracks to recover the survivors from Operation Opera. And apparently the Serhatis will be happy to see us go, so happy that they won’t be lifting a finger to stop us.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” Michael said, “but what about us? I trust the plan extends to recovering us, too?”
Kallewi nodded. “It sure does. When the assault commander has the Serhatis under control, a pair of landers will be on their way to pick us up. Get the map of the local area up on your neuronics. Our exfiltration won’t be easy, and we need to finalize our pickup point.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed. “Can’t we just make our way down to the base of the rocks and wait there until the landers came?”
“That would not be smart, and I am not a trusting person. I know we haven’t seen the Hammers for days, but I don’t think they’ve given up. Their last chance to nail us is when we leave the protection of these rocks. So if I was the Hammer commander, I would have organized covert observation points”-his virtual finger stabbed down on the map-“covering all the main exit points, just on the off chance that we would be dumb enough to walk out into the open to meet whoever came to take us home.”
Under the grime, Michael’s face reddened with embarrassment. “Ah,” he said, “that never occurred to me.”
“Nor me,” Willems added.
“Well, that’s what you have marines for. The pickup point will be well clear to the northwest. Let me explain my thinking, and then we’d better get going. We have a lot of ground to cover. Now …”
For the hundredth time, Michael scanned the ground around the pickup point and the route they would follow down through the rocks and out onto the gravel pan, hunting for the shimmering blur of chromaflage capes. But even with the optronics processor embedded in his neuronics analyzing the raw optical feed, he saw nothing except sun-blasted rock, gravel, and sand.
Something caught Michael’s eye. Far in the distance, a tiny speck appeared, followed by another and another until close to twenty plunged out of orbit. Michael stared. He grabbed the binoculars, and the specks swam into view. His heart raced, the relief overwhelming. The specks were Fed assault landers, and the only target of interest in that direction was the Serhati base and its unwilling crop of internees.
He called Willems and Kallewi. The pair scrambled into position alongside him. “Landers,” he said, handing Kallewi the binoculars. “I think it’s started.”
“Not just any old landers, our landers,” Kallewi whispered after a moment. “Something tells me we may not have much longer to spend on this abortion of a planet. Here, have a look”-he handed the glasses to Willems-“while I see if I can get the satcom to give us a voice link direct to the assault commander.”
“When you get through, ask the marines to get a move on,” Michael said.
Michael was having another look at the landers when Kallewi returned. “Okay, guys, we’re on. Pickup point is confirmed, and we’ve got twenty minutes to get there, and the landers will not wait more than two minutes for us, so move out. Single file. I’ll take point. Michael, you go last. For God’s sake, keep your eyes open. I don’t want us blundering into any Hammers, and always assume they’re down there waiting for us. If we run into problems, we’ll disengage if we can, pull back, and regroup. Neuronics off? Good. Questions? No? Right, let’s go.”
The group set off, the routine-move, pause, scan, move, pause, scan-now second nature; Michael’s head swiveled from side to side in an unending 360-degree search for anything out of place in the chaotic jumble of broken rock and tumbled boulders around them. Slowly, they worked their way down until, with only meters to go before clearing the rocks, Kallewi’s fist went up. Michael froze. What the hell?
For an age, the group did not stir. Kallewi started to inch back and to his right, every movement so slow that it took him a good two minutes to get off the line of advance. He ignored Michael and Willems, his hand working its way slowly behind his back to retrieve the satcom handset. Hard as he strained, Michael could not hear what Kallewi said. Frustrated, he stood there immobile, muscles screaming at the enforced idleness. Kallewi finished saying whatever it was he was saying. Returning the handset to its pouch, he turned slowly and eased his way back to where Willems waited. Finally, hand signals told the story: ambush, ten o’clock, 50 meters.
“Fucking Hammers,” Michael said softly. “Not so dumb, after all.”
Kallewi signaled them to withdraw. Michael needed no encouragement; turning slowly, he moved back up the tortuous path they had spent so much time negotiating.
Two hundred meters back, Kallewi called a halt in the shelter of a large overhang of rock protected by boulders the size of heavy landers.
“Hammer mothers,” he said softly. “Ambush, up ahead. I only spotted them because their ’flage is crap. Another few meters and they’d have had us all. I think the Hammers have staked out every path out of these damn mountains for God knows how many klicks both sides of Algal Springs. Shit! You really can’t take the buggers for granted.”
“What happens next?” Michael asked.
“Spoke to the air assault commander. Gave him their position and ours. He’s going to drop a truckload of ordnance on them, so they will not be a problem for long. But there’ll be more Hammers out there, and the landers cannot carpet bomb the whole place. So here’s the plan.”
Michael forgot his pain-wracked body when he heard the characteristic sound of landers, the scream of fusion-powered mass drivers unmistakable.
Kallewi flicked a glance back at him. “Any second. Ready?”
“Ready.”
Pushing and shoving, Michael wriggled his way as far back undercover as he could. Seconds later, he was glad he had: The rocks around him shuddered, the ground trembling, shock waves shaking the earth, blast-smashed splinters of rock screaming through the air overhead. The noise appalled him, a brain-numbing, body-shaking thunder, as the Fed landers walked a neat pattern of fuel-air bombs across the Hammers’ positions.
The instant the bombing stopped, Kallewi moved. Michael leaped to his feet; heedless of the risks, he followed Kallewi and Willems in a wild, galloping run down through rocks still smoking from the attack, the air thick with powdered rock. Ahead of him, the landers made their final approach; belly thrusters blasted huge clouds of gravel-loaded dust into the air as they came into a brief hover before they dropped heavily onto their landing gear, their massive bulk blurred into black shapes by dust drifting slowly to the ground. Ramps crashed down, and marines in combat armor fanned out to take up position around the landers.
Michael ignored everything except the nearest lander’s ramp, barely noticing the sudden banging of rifle fire as Hammers clear of the bomb-damaged area opened up. He drove himself on, the sudden slap-tear of bullets passing close to his head drowned out by the terrible crackling tear of the landers’ lasers as they suppressed Hammer positions.
Thighs burning, lungs heaving, heart hammering, Michael had barely reached the line of marines when a giant fist smashed into his left side. An instant later, another hammered into his left leg, the shock of the two impacts enough to knock him off his feet; he hit the ground in an untidy sprawl of arms and legs and tumbled to a stop, then lay there too stunned to think, too shocked to move, his whole left side completely numb.
“Oh, shit,” he whispered. He was confused. Why was he so cold? Why could he not see properly? Michael closed his eyes. Ever so slowly, he started to drift away from the light, down into darkness.
Two marines grabbed him under the arms and dragged him up the ramp. Minutes later, the belly thrusters fired, pushing the lander off the ground. The command pilot wasted no time making the transition to forward flight. Transferring power to the main engines, he let the lander build up speed before pulling the nose up to drive the lander nearly vertically into space, closely followed by the second lander, but not before it dropped another pattern of bombs on the Hammers.