part0034

Meyers froze when he saw Reyes’s men. His guts twisted, and his voice made a raspy, guttural noise that filled his helmet. He suddenly felt feverish, unable to breathe.

Reyes’s men were advancing from the alleys and out of the building fronts behind a wall of women, Mattias’s people. The women were tied together at the waist by sheets and belts and cabling. They cried, barely audible over the gunfire, and their hands covered their eyes. Reyes’s men were hunched down, some crawling, their guns poking out between the women’s legs.

“Hold fire!” Meyers knew he didn’t need to give the order, but he did anyway.

Reyes’s men advanced, firing and taunting. They were packed tight behind the women.

They were nearly halfway across the narrow street already, and the constant stream of automatic fire now had the MARCOS and Norman’s fire team pinned down behind cover.

“Flash-bang!” Meyers peeked over the wall “Anyone have a flash-bang?”

Norman banked a flash-bang off the low section of wall to Meyers’s right. It fell on the far side of the wall. “That’s all I have, Colonel.”

Meyers lunged for the flash-bang, felt a round hit him in the ribs, then pulled back, gasping. He had the flash-bang in his hand, but his entire left side burned. He checked his armor, saw no indication he was bleeding, and risked a quick peek over the wall.

Reyes’s men were more than halfway across the street. Meyers guessed there were ten women, most of them young, some not even old enough to be married yet. He gauged the distance. Because he had to get the grenade under the top of the northern wall where Norman’s team were in position, the throw was going to be tough. It would almost be better to try to skip the flash-bang along the street, but Reyes’s men were crawling. The grenade was more likely to get caught on one of them at the front than get back into the group. He needed it back in the pack to be most effective. He needed a better place to throw from.

The common laundry room!

There wasn’t much cover between his position and there, but popping into the alleyway like he could from that room would give him a chance to lob the flash-bang over the women.

He slapped Paxton’s shoulder. “I’m going for that laundry room.”

“I can send some shots high, maybe scare them.”

Meyers ran, cursing each time his wounded heel came down. He leaped over the wounded to reach the hallway, landing on that same heel, and his vision filled with black spots. Bullets cracked and thudded around him, and he thought one might have clipped his hip, but it wasn’t enough to slow him. He leaned on the wall, ducking where it disappeared, and stopped at the entry to the laundry room. There were holes in the eastern wall, and through those, he could see more holes in the northern wall, facing the dirt road outside. Three of Reyes’s men were visible there, wide of the main group, outside the human wall, possibly waiting for the right moment to charge the laundry room and dash through the hallway to flank.

Meyers stuffed the flash-bang in a pouch and brought his CAWS-5 up, then he crouch-ran into the laundry room. He kept his eyes on the flanking men through the biggest hole in the north wall, waiting until they sprinted toward him.

He fired, short bursts, unconcerned with ammunition at that point. The moment was too critical to worry about anything but dropping the enemy. The first two fell, but he missed the third, who ran into the alley. Meyers ran to the door and met the man there, knocking aside his gun, then punching him in the throat. The man gaped and fell back, eyes bugging out. Meyers swung the CAWS-5 and clipped the man’s jaw, shattering it and sending him to the ground.

Meyers ran up the alley, pulled the flash-bang out, activated it, searched the road for his best target, then lobbed the flash-bang. It arced just over the head of the closest woman and bounced off the back of one of the crawling men at the front before disappearing from sight.

Two of Reyes’s men saw the threat and pivoted on their bellies. They fired through the legs of the women, eliciting screams as bullets shattered bone and tore muscle. The women fell, and bullets bounced off Meyers’s chest plate.

He stumbled back into the alley, unable to breathe, unable to appreciate the boom of the flash-bang or the whooping of the ERF and MARCOS personnel who jumped out from cover and ran among the stunned enemy, shooting and clubbing. Meyers looked down, saw blood trickling from a small hole midway between his left shoulder and hip.

Not lethal, he told himself. He staggered to the alley edge, saw a few of Reyes’s men stumbling down the opposite alley. He brought his CAWS-5 up and dropped each of them, firing until the weapon only clicked.

The magazine was empty.

He limped back into the alley, tried to set the CAWS-5 back into its brace, then gave up. The man with the shattered jaw sat up, one hand clutching the jaw, the other waving Meyers away. Meyers guessed the man was in his early twenties. Unfairly imprisoned, probably even before adulthood. Most of his choices had been made for him, all of them bad. He wore the uniform of his warlord—grungy, tattered jeans and a muscle shirt. His arms were covered in tattoos—tribal allegiance, threats, declarations of triumph. His eyes were wide, terror-filled.

Meyers scooped up one of the dropped assault rifles, opened his faceplate, and waved the man away. “Get the hell out of here.”

The young man ran, wheezing, groaning, spitting up blood.

Meyers headed back to the others, wondering why he’d suddenly felt compelled to show mercy. It made no sense whatsoever given the stakes and conditions.

As he rounded the corner, he heard a voice: Perkins.

“Colonel, they got a sniper out there somewhere.” Perkins grunted, and his video feed showed him climbing onto a rooftop. “Not a great one, but good enough to nearly hit me twice.”

“Gerhardt, you hear that?”

“Yeah. I thought you wanted me keeping those haulers locked down.”

Meyers tried to gauge how far Perkins was from the Dart. It looked like it was less than 100 meters. “Perkins, how far out are you?”

“Seventy-five meters, maybe less.”

“Gerhardt, you have those haulers locked down?”

“No. They’ve got a driver getting into the front vehicle. That Devil Cat’s hooked back up with them. I don’t have a clean shot. When they turn south onto Guevara, that’ll change.”

“Find that sniper. Perkins, any idea where he might be?”

“Got a hunch he’s in one of the prefabs west of the soccer field, Colonel.”

“Gerhardt, watch the—”

“I’m not deaf, Colonel. But I don’t see anything. Sunlight should be reflecting off any sort of rig a local…thug would have. Hey, Perkins, how about giving him something to shoot at.”

“How about you fuck off?”

“Just remember who ran out of ammunition first before you start bitching. Why don’t you move? Just give him a little head. I promise he won’t c—”

Meyers shook his head and sighed.

“Wait!” It sounded like Gerhardt was sucking air in between his teeth. “Reflection, third floor, southernmost prefab.”

“Take the shot,” Meyers said. Meyers heard a faint crack and Perkins grunting, then another, louder crack.

“Barrel tip visible,” Gerhardt said. “Sniper eliminated. Checking on those haulers.”

Perkins’s video showed a rooftop wall, like the one Meyers had hidden behind.

“Private Perkins?” Meyers listened for breathing.

The video shifted. “Moving, sir.”

Perkins was on the ladder, sliding down.

Meyers switched to McNutt’s feed. The flyer was lower now, even more unsteady, and the smoke was dense. Meyers imagined he could smell the metallic, acrid stench and burning sensation that sort of smoke would leave in his throat.

“Corporal, Perkins is seventy-five meters out and moving again. You think that flyer is still a threat?”

“Not like the people who got us pinned down now.”

Meyers realized he was hearing the roar of automatic weapons and the thud of bullets through McNutt’s feed. Meyers scanned through the video, finally spotting two clumps of men. There were about fifteen, all told. They were crawling and low-running forward, one group at a time, the second providing cover fire. They either had some sort of formal military training or learned awfully quickly.

“I see them. Can you get to the east side of the highway, put some more buildings between you and them.”

“Yeah, sir, that thought’d never crossed my mind,” McNutt said with a sigh. “We tried, and that’s when Mr. Flyboy decided to show us he still had ammo in that belly gun.”

“I think we’ve broken Reyes’s men here. I’ll send Norman’s team forward, see if they can’t help out.”

“That’d be seriously appreciated.”

Meyers limped the rest of the way to the little triage area and settled against a wall, faceplate raised so he could breathe the comparatively fresh air. “Master Sergeant Paxton?” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Paxton came to a stop a meter away, knuckling grime from his eyes. “Already sent them on, Colonel.” He squatted. “That’s not a particularly good shade of pale.”

Meyers tapped his chest plate. “Cracked rib, I think.”

“Banh’s still got a couple painkillers.”

“No.” Meyers knew his injury paled in comparison to the other wounded. “It didn’t go deep.”

He blew out a breath, brought his faceplate halfway down, and then he brought up the overall battlefield map. “Any sign of Reyes’s men?”

“Fell back. I think they had all the fight knocked out of ‘em for now.”

Meyers tried to imagine Reyes accepting defeat when he probably still had a couple hundred men and three or four haulers. “They’ll be back.”

“Colonel, this is Private Starling. You hear me?” Starling’s voice was soft, slow.

“Go ahead, Private.”

“It took me a bit. I-I don’t know why. But I got into Zero-Zero-One. The Javelin?”

“It’s done, but I just realized, we left the communication module. You remember that module? To amplify the signal coming out of Turning Point?”

Meyers remembered. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. “I remember it.”

“Yeah, so, we can’t use Zero-Zero-One.”

“What about Zero-Zero-Two?”

“Yeah.” Starling went silent. “Yeah. Zero-Zero-Two. It’s ninety-eight…”

“Ninety-eight percent done?”

“Yeah. Right? I’m sorry. I’m having a hard time…”

“Private Starling? Private Starling?”

“Can you go ahead and program Zero-Zero-Two to fire up when it’s ready?”

“Good. Please do that.” Meyers clasped his hands in front of his face and squeezed, then he tapped out a quick beat on his knees.

Paxton gazed out through the north wall. “Was that Private Starling?”

“Yeah. I think she’s slipping into shock.” Meyers opened a channel to Ensign Nunoz. “Antonio? Zero-Zero-Two’s going to be firing up in a little bit. The system software rebuild is nearing completion. I want that bird airborne the second it’s ready.”

“Yes, sir. Do we have a time estimate?”

“No. Soon. Once you’re up and running, connect to my BAS network. I’ll have an open invite out to you. It’s still a mess here.”

Meyers closed his eyes. “Bad enough you’ll be flying home with an empty Javelin if you don’t get out here soon. You think you and Genevieve could get the Condor up while you’re waiting? We need eyes in the sky.”

“Sure! Give it a few minutes.”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?”

Meyers disconnected and sent an invitation to Nunoz to join the BAS network.

Paxton squatted and leaned in. “You’re looking awfully worn out.”

“How the hell did Rimes do all this? I mean, he was smart, but I’m smart, too. I can’t keep up. We’re spread all over the place, people dying, people wounded…”

“Maybe you’re doing too much,” Paxton said, leaning in closer, his breath a pungent mixture Meyers couldn’t figure out. “You’ve been so caught up in untangling his mess…” Paxton jerked his head toward Ramawat’s position. “…you don’t even realize you’re making the same mistake he was making.”

The same mistake Ramawat was making; Meyers tried to figure that one out.

Paxton snorted. “Delegation. Trust. That’s what sets a good commander apart from a bad one. You trained this unit to operate as a whole and to operate as individuals. Let that happen.”

Meyers thought back over the engagement. He had been a little deeper into the weeds than normal. Choosing which squad would help out Perkins, watching Perkins’s progress, specifying deployments. It was the same level of detail Ramawat had been getting into, the same sort of implied lack of trust.

“Shit, Carl. I’m sorry.”

Paxton leaned back and waved the words away. “Typical reaction to things going to hell on you.”

“So, did I get it wrong with Ramawat, too? Did I go too far?”

“Nah. You gave him enough rope—he hung himself. It’s gonna be ugly, but I’ll be there for you. I think if anyone makes it through this, they’ll be there for you.”

“Won’t help much, will it?”

Paxton seemed to think about that. “Not usually.”

“Didn’t think so.” Meyers slouched forward and opened Gerhardt’s channel. “Corporal Gerhardt?”

“Please keep Master Sergeant Paxton up to date on Norman’s progress. You two need to make sure we free McNutt’s team up.”

Gerhardt didn’t respond at first. “All right, Colonel. Master Sergeant, I see Norman’s team about fifty meters—shit!”

Meyers straightened. “What is it? Gerhardt?”

“The proxy!” Gerhardt’s gun boomed. “It’s moving again! I think it’s going for the belly gun of that flyer that crashed—” Gerhardt’s gun boomed again. Gunfire from nearby leaked into his audio.

Meyers got to his feet. They needed the other satchel charge. He racked his brain, trying to remember who had the second…

“Do what you can,” Meyers shouted into the channel.

He stumbled forward, barely managing to reach the foyer before he had to stop and catch his breath. The dead seemed intent on dragging him down, but he finally reached the front door. He scanned the street, but the only movement he saw was the proxy, it’s one good arm now holding the belly gun of the flyer that had crashed into the front of the apartment building catercornered from the one he was in. The flyer still rocked on its tires, the pilot and copilot’s corpses moving in rhythm.

Meyers doubted the belly gun was still operational after a crash like he’d seen the flyer suffer. He wasn’t sure the proxy could use the belly gun, even if it was operational. That didn’t seem to be stopping the proxy, which was backing away from the building front on wobbly legs, raising the gun as if seeking a target.

Somehow, the gun fired; not completely—more like a halfhearted burst. It was enough to tear a section of the front wall away beneath the roof.