Lieutenant Colonel Gabriel Diaz broke into a sprint. Sand under his toes, the sun just peeking above the eastern horizon, he counted off the seconds as he raced toward the sign.
It had been planted in the sand and surrounded with barbed wire, and it faced away from him. On the far side was a pictographic warning to the civilian population telling them they were entering a restricted area. Land mines and death! Keep out! All bullshit, but so far it had worked.
The sign was exactly five hundred yards out from the last bit of grass that marked the true edge of Vectes Naval Base. Gabe always sprinted this stretch, counting the seconds, trying to improve. For the last three weeks he’d barely shaved a second off his best, though, and yesterday he’d actually lost a second for the first time in… well, since arriving here a few months back.
He pushed. His lungs burned. The sign was ahead.
And then he was past it. Gabe swore. He’d lost two seconds, but at least this time it wasn’t his fault. He’d been distracted. Because between yesterday and today someone had painted a message on the back of the metal sign:
NO 80
It was a message appearing all over the place, lately. Chanted in the canteen, written on mirrors or bathroom stalls, scrawled on the sides of patrol boats, or muttered over the comm as a greeting or even a goodbye. Gabe was already tired of it, but hadn’t yet summoned the energy to crack down on those who were using it.
Truth was, he agreed in principal.
No Eighty. No eightieth year of war. The conflict had gone on way too long—only an idiot or a psychopath would argue against that. The problem was, none of the superpowers were going to give up. Not until they controlled the Imulsion. And the slogan didn’t identify a specific outcome, just “no more war.” Win, lose, draw? Were these meatheads suggesting the COG surrender on the last day of the seventy-ninth, or unleash one last epic offensive, just to accomplish the end of the conflict?
Perhaps, Gabe mused, all they would accomplish with this graffiti was to knock another second off his time.
Slowing to a jog, he got his breath back under control. The tide was in. Cool water splashed under his bare feet. The regular group of locals were here, fishing. They waved at him as he passed, and as always Gabe waved back.
He jogged another mile, until the sand became a rocky shore of teeming tide pools. Here he rested, studying the life forms that lived in the tiny temporary ponds.
The sun was over the horizon now. Another dawn in the Lesser Islands, another day at Vectes Naval Base. A reward posting, one Gabe was supposed to be grateful for.
Part of him was. Filling his lungs with the brisk, heavy ocean air, Gabe Diaz knew things could be much, much worse. He’d been there, after all. Fought in the mud and flame, been ordered to kill, and then later, ordered others to kill. They had, in great number. And many of them had died.
Victorious or not, the guilt he’d amassed with each Gear that perished under his orders weighed him down like a chain and anchor in the deep ocean. Which is why he’d been given a medal—for “showing tactical prowess in the face of overwhelming odds”—and a posting here in this backwater corner of Sera. His reward for winning a great battle, despite the losses that had come with it.
Gabe scanned the horizon, unable to keep from contrasting this tranquil place with the horrors he’d witnessed in the frigid steppe north of Meschov. Yes, there was that part of him that felt grateful. But there was another part, too. The one that felt time was slipping away from him. Time, and the war itself.
He turned around, toward Vectes, and did his morning run again in reverse.
By the time he saw the walls of the base, the sun was well above the horizon, eroding the morning’s chilly salt breeze. The fishermen had gone, their work for the day already done. Gabe half-heartedly considered going into town and buying a fishing pole of his own. Setting up next to them some morning and learning about their lives.
He considered that as he passed the sign warning of explosives hidden in the sand. “NO80” had been painted on this side, too. He found his usual gap in the barbed wire and wove through, unconcerned if anyone saw him do it. The passage wasn’t exactly a secret, and anyway, there were no Union of Independent Republics personnel for a hundred miles to note the hole in the base’s defense. The enemy stayed at their end of the island chain, way to the north, and the COG stayed at this end in the south. That was how it worked. For as long as Gabe had been stationed here, anyway. Perhaps neither side wanted to ruin a good thing. Reward posting, indeed.
The beach gave way to a solid wall. A narrow access stairwell had been built into the side, leading up to a walkway that ringed the entire base. Usually by the time he was halfway from the warning sign to the wall he could see at least one Gear on patrol. This time, though, no one was up there.
Gabe took the steps two at a time, ready to dress down whatever Gear had pulled wall duty this morning.
“But the Indies never come here! What’s the point!?” He could hear some private saying it even now, after being accused of being lax in their duty.
“They don’t come here,” Gabe would reply, “because they know we’re ready and waiting.”
And they’d grumble and mutter their yessirs and fuck off up to the wall. Later they’d come find him in the mess. Buy him a drink, maybe indulge him in a round of Fractured Lands. That would make the whole thing worth it, Gabe thought. Fewer and fewer challengers played the game against him lately because it required more tactical thought than most here cared to exercise. For Gabe, it was as important as his morning jog.
At the top of the stairs he realized he’d been wrong. It wasn’t that there was no one on patrol, it was that they were all down at the seawall on the southern edge. Four Gears stood down there, all facing the ocean, each with an arm up to fight off the rhythmic spray of saltwater that crashed against that barrier. They were looking at something in the ocean.
Gabe jogged up behind them, slowing as he arrived.
There was no need to ask what had captured their collective attention, or why it merited ignoring the rest of the perimeter. Half a mile out to sea a ship was at anchor. Gray and sleek, definitely COG, but not a type Gabe had seen before. Not in person, anyway. The vessel was low slung, built for speed.
“Bus?” one of the men beside him said, a slang term for the Landing Craft, or LCU, class of ship.
“That’s my guess,” another replied, “but I’m no fish-head.”
Gabe found he agreed with the guess, but waited to see all the same. The ship was in profile, and had no markings at all. No name, no number, not even a COG flag above its conning tower, but there was something about its lines that implied Landing Craft class. Maybe not of the utility variety, but the purpose seemed the same.
“Starting to get a bad feeling about this,” he said, despite himself. The Gears beside him turned. They hadn’t noticed him arrive, and at the sight of their commanding officer they suddenly found other things to do. Like, for example, their duty.
“Lieutenant Colonel,” they said in turn, as they went back to their patrol routes. Routes that seemed to suddenly require a very slow and careful trek along the southern sea wall, with full attention on the ship anchored out there. Gabe started to doubt his initial guess. The vessel seemed too small.
After a few minutes, the bow of the mystery ship rotated open, splashing into the water.
So, an LCU after all. Not going to be many tanks that could fit in that hold, though, and even if they could, they wouldn’t deploy a half-mile out. So what were they landing from it?
The answer came immediately. As the forward ramp touched the waves, several small inflatable craft powered out from the mothership and turned toward shore. They came in fast, each carrying a full complement of six Gears. There was a moment, though brief, where Gabe had a flash of panic that this was some kind of UIR trick. One of their own boats disguised as an LCU, delivering squads wearing stolen COG armor. A dawn raid that would mark the day the Lesser Islands north of Tyrus were finally thrust into the war.
But it wasn’t that. He knew with certainty because—as the boats approached the narrow harbor entrance—Gabe Diaz recognized the man sitting front and center in the first craft.
“Well, shit,” he muttered into the breeze. Suddenly the lack of markings made sense. “This’ll be interesting.” Quickly he clomped down the inner set of stairs, heading toward the shipyard.
“LC,” a Gear said as he passed. There were more, and the greeting was repeated by each of them in turn. Gabe responded with their ranks, despite knowing all their names. Names were for personal connection, or the need to get someone’s attention. Using a name meant showing you cared, that you were deadly serious, or both, and that was a resource to be spent wisely.
He only used it for those who’d earned it. And if there were ever any combat on these shores, he’d use their names then, too.
“Diaz!”
The bark of his boss. Gabe winced slightly and turned.
“Captain,” he said. “We have visitors. Four inflatables—”
“I’m well aware,” the stout woman replied. She marched over and looked him up and down. Though Captain Phillips knew of his morning routine, she had no compunction about pretending his lack of uniform was an issue, at least when she needed it to be.
Their relationship was complicated.
She was COG Navy, not Army, for one thing. The overall commander of Vectes Base. Gabe, being Army, was responsible for all the Gears stationed here, and answered only to her. But he also answered to the Army, whose views and priorities didn’t always line up with the Naval side of the Coalition. Compounding the problem, Phillips was new here—only a few months in the Islands, barely more than him. As her first stint in command, so far she’d been quite keen to prove Vectes was a Naval installation first, and the Gears were merely guests. But more than that, she also seemed hell-bent on keeping the place quiet and, as a result, off the radar of their leadership.
Gabe opened his mouth, but was quickly cut off.
“Who they are and why they’re here is none of your goddamn business,” she said. He hadn’t asked, but decided not to point that out. Asking had, after all, been exactly what he was about to do.
Phillips went on. “Get down there and make sure they have whatever supplies they need. Don’t ask them questions. Don’t even fucking look at them unless you have to. Get ’em their stuff, and get ’em out of here A-SAP. Clear?”
“Clear, ma’am.”
“Good.” She nodded. “Dismissed.”
Gabe saluted and marched off, weaving through the barracks and the maze of cargo containers that stood just beyond. All the evidence was in place now, he thought. As if the unmarked boat, or the sight of Wyatt, hadn’t been enough, the demand of cooperation and discretion sealed it.
A spec-ops team had just landed at Vectes.
* * *
“Ho-lee-shiiiit. Gabriel Fucking Diaz, as I live and breathe.”
“The hell are you doing here, Wyatt?” He embraced his younger brother for the first time in…
“How long has it been?”
“Three years, I think,” Wyatt replied. “Wait, shit, that was Oscar I saw then. Four years!”
“Four? Damn. Too long, brother.” He realized suddenly that both the spec-ops squad and his own people were all standing around, waiting for the love-in to end so they could get to work.
“Forget my question, by the way,” Gabe said. “Not supposed to ask what you’re doing here.”
Wyatt shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me. It’s no secret. We’re here to do a bit of this and a bit of that.” The Ghosts behind him all laughed, practically in unison, at the no-doubt familiar line.
Wyatt turned to them and hiked a thumb toward Gabe. “This is my brother. Won a big battle so they sent him here to drink rum on the beach.”
“Must be nice,” one of the Ghosts quipped.
Gabe ignored all this. He wanted to ask his brother a load of other questions. Like what he’d been up to since they’d last seen each other, or more to the point, how Wyatt had got mixed up in Special Forces. But he had his orders, and Wyatt surely did, too.
“Cap said you need some supplies.”
In answer, Wyatt snapped his fingers. A woman behind him slapped a laminated piece of paper into his hand. Wyatt in turn handed it to Gabe.
“Just a few things, then we’ll be out of your hair.”
“Guess we’ll have to catch up another time,” Gabe said, scanning the list. Rations, fuel, ammo. The usual stuff. Except for the last two items.
“Yellow paint… and… you’re taking all our beer?”
Instantly the Vectes regulars at Gabe’s back started to grumble.
“No, ’course not,” Wyatt said. “Read it literally. We just need the kegs. Doesn’t say they need to have anything in them.”
“I don’t understand.”
“And you can’t ask for an explanation. So it goes, eh, bro?”
Gabe grunted, his brain kicking into overdrive. True, he couldn’t ask questions, but the need for kegs was going to be an issue. The latest shipment had just arrived. Emptying them sounded fun and all, but the sun had barely come up. Last thing he needed was a bunch of sauced-up enlisted stumbling around all day. Then he tried to imagine what a spec-ops team needed with twenty empty beer kegs. Nothing leapt to mind.
“Problem?” Wyatt asked.
Gabe motioned for his brother to join him off to the side. They walked fifteen feet from the others and turned their backs slightly.
“Were it anyone else asking, I’d just follow my orders and give you what you need, but… Wyatt, c’mon, all our kegs? Emptied or full, doesn’t matter. I’ll have a riot.”
“We can help you quell a riot.” That grin that Gabe knew so well crept onto the younger man’s face. He’d seen it a hundred times. It usually led to Gabe and Oscar having to step in and save Wyatt from yet another scrape.
“You know, I’d hoped you’d mature a little once you reached adulthood,” Gabe said. “If you reached adulthood, that is.”
The man shrugged. “Never asked for you and Oscar to take me under your wings.”
“You would have died if we hadn’t.”
“True,” Wyatt admitted. “I’m grateful for that. Seriously, I am. But the fact remains…”
Gabe looked at the man beside him. No matter how hard he tried, he still saw him as the scrawny, sickly, awkward boy who was in the process of being kicked to death when Oscar and Gabe had stepped in and chased off the gang of idiots picking on the weakling. That had been their first day at the orphanage, and the boy called Wyatt rarely left Oscar’s or Gabe’s side in the years that followed. They came to think of him as their little brother. For better or worse.
“Felt like all Oscar and I did at Mercy School was watch your back.”
“And look at me now,” Wyatt said, spreading his arms. “All grown up.”
“Physically, anyway.”
At that Wyatt just grinned. “Your clearance level means I can’t share details, but I’m pretty sure it’s me protecting you now, brother.”
Gabe shook his head. The arrogance of Ghost Squad was legendary, and only made worse by the fact that they’d earned it.
“Look, about your list… you said you just need the kegs, not the beer.”
“Correct.”
“Would something else do in their place? I can’t ask what you need them for, but what about… hmm… we’ve got a palette of air tanks left from a year back. The dry dock pump failed, so for about three months the fish-heads had to dive to fix scrapes on the hulls. Now they’re just collecting dust. The tanks, not the sailors.”
Wyatt rubbed his chin, deep in thought. Finally he glanced up.
“Show me.”
* * *
An hour later the four landing craft began making trips back and forth to the LCU, taking loads of the old unused diving tanks, along with the rest of the supplies the Ghosts had requested. When the tedium of loading began, Gabe ordered those of his men who had duty to get to it. The spectators drifted off soon after. Show over.
It was only when the last boat was loaded, and Wyatt came over to say goodbye, that Captain Phillips strode up and took in the scene.
“Get everything you need?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Wyatt replied.
“Good. I want you to relay a message to your captain for me.”
“Comms down?”
“No, comms are fine, thank you very much. I need something impressed upon him, and that means someone needs to say it to his face.”
“Fair enough.” There was that grin again.
Phillips stepped up to the young man and stared up into his eyes for a moment. She was as stocky as they came. Twice as wide as Wyatt and all of it was muscle. A cast-iron wall of a woman. Yet there was something about the way Wyatt held himself that made Gabe wonder which of them would win in a scrape. The boy Gabe had first saved in that orphanage bathroom had been as useless as a sack of hammers, but you didn’t survive a childhood like that without learning how to survive, and Gabe and Oscar had taught him plenty. The rest had been sheer willpower and—if Gabe was totally honest—a penchant for deviousness that rivaled anyone.
“Do you find something funny?” Captain Phillips asked. Under any other circumstances she would have tacked a rank onto that, just to show it was lower than hers, but none of the Ghosts’ armor had ranks displayed, or names for that matter.
“No ma’am,” he replied, looking into the middle distance instead of her face, which was only inches away.
“Good. Now here’s the message.”
Please don’t take out a notepad and pen, Gabe thought, willing the advice to reach his brother through sheer mental force.
Wyatt stood still. Waiting. Playing the game.
Good.
“Nothing interesting ever happens in these islands,” Phillips said, “and I like it that way. We have our base, the Gorasni have theirs. All the rocks in between are just that. Rocks. Useless rocks.”
“I—”
She stepped on his interruption with all the considerable force her rank and stature allowed.
“Useless is good, Ghost. Useless is better than a mountain of body bags. Do you understand?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good. Doesn’t matter if you understand, though. Impress it upon Captain Deevers.”
“I will.”
“Then you’re dismissed.”
Wyatt saluted. It was, Gabe thought, the perfect salute to give someone you didn’t think deserved it. Just an inch on the respectful side so as not to be called out on it, and nothing more.
The conversation over, Wyatt turned on his heel. In the process he met Gabe’s eyes. It was only the briefest of instants, but Gabe had known Wyatt through the toughest years of their lives, and had a deep knowledge of all the looks the man could give and what they meant.
Phillips nodded, then turned on her heel, matching Wyatt’s exit with one of her own.
Gabe caught up with Wyatt as he was climbing aboard his craft.
“She’s serious, by the way,” Gabe said.
“I could tell.” Wyatt winked at him.
“It… It’s good to see you, Wyatt.”
“’Course it is.” His grin matched the tone.
Gabe lowered his voice. “I’m serious, brother.”
At that Wyatt swung his legs back over the side of the boat and approached. He clasped hands with Gabe, then pulled him into a soldier’s embrace.
“I know you are,” Wyatt said. “It’s good to see you, too. I wish Oscar was here. Family reunion, eh?”
“We should arrange that,” Gabe replied. “After… well, after.”
Wyatt’s grin faltered a bit. “One day at a time, eh? But if the stars align and that reunion can happen, first round’s on me.”
“Holding you to that.”
Wyatt saluted. A much less formal version than that he’d given Phillips. Then he was back aboard his boat, and the motor revved.
Gabe watched his brother speed off back to his ship. After a while he realized that Phillips was standing beside him, doing the same thing. When the rafts were all back in the mothership, and the ramp retracted, she turned to him.
“I got the sense,” she said, “that you know that little prick.”
Gabe nodded. “Wyatt Callahan. We grew up together.”
“I could look him up, but we both know the file will be restricted. What can you tell me about him?”
“He’s a good man at heart,” Gabe said carefully. “Unfortunately, that heart is buried under a lifetime of shit.” Sprinkled here and there with the best advice and support Oscar and I could give, but I know it wasn’t enough. He left this unsaid.
“Should I be worried?”
A loaded question, and one Gabe wasn’t sure how to answer. He’d only worked with her for a few months, and their relationship was still as rocky as the eastern shore. Gabe was used to giving advice and having it listened to, usually followed. But Phillips seemed to think that discarding his advice—or just not asking for it at all—was the right way to establish the proper pecking order. Navy first, in her base.
“Worried? I don’t think so,” he said. Then he added, “But today might be a good day for a readiness drill.” To her credit, she pondered that. Then she turned and looked at the LCU out at sea.
“They could have come a lot closer,” she said, almost to herself. “A bus like that… could have come right up to shore.”
He remained silent. The reason they’d anchored so far out was obvious. Whatever else they had in their hold, it wasn’t for prying eyes. After a few seconds she turned and marched back to her office.
Ten minutes later, the announcement went out for a readiness drill.