Portal Zulu-36, Branxton base
The approaches to Portal Zulu-36, one of the hundreds that accessed the maze of tunnels, caves, and caverns making up the NRA’s Branxton base, were seething with activity. The air was heavy with tension and filled with the nervous murmur of troopers waiting to jump off, the crush made worse by the landers and missile batteries lined up nose to tail.
Michael pushed his way through to where the 385th Independent Company waited for him. “All set?” he asked the 385th’s commander, Major Moore. Michael liked the man. Behind the stern, unforgiving face of the hard-bitten NRA veteran-which he was-lay a warm heart and generous spirit, a remarkable thing given the inhuman cruelty DocSec had inflicted on his family.
Moore nodded. “We are,” he said, running his eye across the 385th. “ENCOMM’s made a couple of minor tweaks to Tortoise, but they don’t affect us.”
“Pleased to hear it,” Michael said, trying to ignore a sudden attack of nerves that filled his stomach with slowly churning acid, “I just want to get going.”
“Me too,” Moore said. “Now, I’m happy for your guys to give us a hand when we get to McNair, but you don’t have to, you know.”
“Here to help, Major,” Michael said. “It’s the least we can do.”
“Thanks.” Moore looked at Michael’s security detail, whose members were dressed like everyone else, Michael included, in the combat fatigues of Hammer marines. “Even with their visors up you’d never know that two of them were women,” he said with a grin.
“Don’t tell them that.” Michael chuckled. “But I still worry about them compromising the operation, you know, if we’re stopped. Their IDs might say they’re men, but it won’t take long to disprove that.”
“Shit!” Moore said. “I knew there was something I had to tell you. I got word an hour ago. DocSec has just made changes to the way their ID knowledge base works. None of our civilian IDs are any good anymore.”
“They’re not? But what about checkpoints? How will you get through?”
“The old-fashioned way,” Moore said. He lifted his assault rifle with an evil grin. “And it’s not such a problem. Our orders look genuine. Hell, they are genuine, authorized by the 273rd Transport Regiment’s commanding officer himself, not that he knows that. So the marines won’t be checking IDs, and those DocSec pigs aren’t too keen to pull marine convoys over these days, so they won’t be either. They know what happens when they try. Don’t worry; we’ll have no problems getting to McNair.”
“I hope so,” Michael said, looking around for a comm box, “but I need to check if ours are okay.”
“I already have. Your IDs are screwed too. Once you’re in McNair and on your own, they won’t help you if DocSec pulls you over.”
“Damn!” Michael grumbled.
“You’ll be fine. Keep those visors down, look aggressive, and maybe DocSec will leave you alone.”
Then it was time. “Move out,” Moore ordered, and the 385th headed out into a rain-swept night. Michael, Shinoda, and the four members of his security detail fell in behind, the darkness flaring as NRA air-defense batteries engaged the flood of incoming Hammer kinetics.