Chains of Command (38 page)

“It’s a big party,” the reply comes. “There are civvies with handguns and PDWs up here. Must be the CSS agents.”

“If you come across the president, try to get him alive.”

“Be happy to, if he doesn’t shoot at us.”

There are at least four or five bodies of fallen garrison troopers in the corridor. None of them are even wearing hardshell. Our attack took them completely by surprise, which is almost unforgivable. They knew they had a hostile presence on their moon, and the main protective platoon tasked with keeping their main command center safe wasn’t fully battle ready when we showed up.

Two of First Squad’s troopers, Giddings and Keenan, are hunkered down covering both sides of the hallway just in front of the ops center hatch, which is blown off its hinges and lying on the floor just inside the room. I step on top and over the hatch and into the ops center.

“So far, so good,” Gunny Philbrick says. He’s unloading sidearms and PDWs and tossing them into a pile in the corner of the room. First Squad’s troopers are busy tying up garrison personnel with flex cuffs. There are half a dozen people in the room, two in civilian overalls and four in fatigues. Two more uniformed troops are motionless on the floor. Sergeant Humphrey checks them for weapons and then cuffs them anyway. The ops center people look shocked and scared. One of them is bleeding from a gash in the forehead.

“They got at least one call out,” I tell Philbrick. “We have Shrikes coming in.”

“They can’t reach us in here,” Philbrick says. “But they can fuck up things for Second Platoon outside.”

I point at the comms console.

“They have multi-megawatt gear and a huge stinking antenna array on the roof. Get someone on there and send an update to Company and Fourth Platoon. Let them know what we’re doing if they haven’t figured it out already. No sense hiding now.”

“Copy that,” Philbrick says. “On it.”

“I need some help up here,” Sergeant Fallon sends over the Company channel. “We’ve got a whole bunch of people who got smart and surrendered. I don’t have the manpower to keep a lid on them.”

“Send two troopers down with them to the central staircase. We’ll meet them down there and take over the prisoners. Got just the space for ’em.”

“That’s a solid copy,” Sergeant Fallon replies.

“Humphrey, Rogers, with me,” I say on my way out, and the two SI troopers follow me, weapons at the ready.

The central staircase well still carries the sound of gunfire from the floors above as Third and Fourth Squads under Sergeant Fallon clear the building of armed resistance. On the other side of the ground floor, Second Squad under Sergeant Wilsey is busy clearing the rest of the rooms.

One of Third Squad’s troopers, Corporal Gregory, comes down the stairs a few moments later, followed by half a dozen handcuffed civilians. Another Third Squad trooper brings up the rear, weapon aimed at the gaggle of civvies. They’re mostly fit men of fighting age, and their haircuts mark them as police or security forces—careful and martial-looking buzz cuts with slightly longer hair on the crown of the head, a time-consuming cut that would be too much trouble for a military barber.

“Protective detail,” Corporal Gregory explains. “Some of it, anyway. We potted three before the rest put down their guns.”

One of the civilians doesn’t look like a cop at all. He’s slightly overweight and has the ruddy-faced look of a ’burber with access to—and a love for—lots of clean and safe alcohol.

“You.” I point. “What’s your name and function?”

One of his protectors answers for him.

“That’s the secretary of interior security,” he says, as if I just asked the dumbest question in the world.

I look at the CSS agent’s face, and a jolt of recognition goes through my brain like a lightning bolt. The CSS agent in front of me interrogated me on Independence last year, right after
Indy
made her suicide run past Mars and back to Earth. The last time I saw this man, both our noses were broken and bleeding.

“Special Agent Green,” I say. “I can’t tell you how very glad I am to find you here.”

He looks at me, puzzled, and I open my helmet visor so he can see my face.

“Andrew Grayson,” I say. “We had the pleasure last year, on Independence Station.” I tap the bridge of my nose.

To Agent Green’s credit, he doesn’t show any fear or panic. Instead, his eyes just narrow, and there’s a disbelieving little smirk on his face.

“Yes,” he says. “I remember. The belligerent staff sergeant with the strong right cross.”

“How many CSS agents are in the protection detail for this building, and where’s the former president?”

Agent Green grins. “Go fuck yourself.”

I return his grin without humor.

“Sergeant Humphrey,” I say. “Take these people to the ops center and place them with the other prisoners. Beware of Agent Green. He’s quick and mean. If he tries any tough-guy shit, shoot him in the spine,” I add, echoing the words Agent Green spoke to the cops on Independence when they led me off.

“Copy that,” Sergeant Humphrey replies. She gestures down the hallway with the muzzle of her rifle.

“Move along, folks,” she addresses our captives. “And no funny shit. I’m quicker and meaner than the lot of you put together.”

The CSS agents and the secretary of interior security march off obediently. Agent Green gives me a glance as he passes me, and the smirk is still on his face. It occurs to me that even in armor and holding an automatic weapon, I must not seem terribly intimidating.

“Enemy air, bearing zero-zero-three, right on the deck,” Lieutenant Dorian warns on the Company channel.

The enemy Shrikes announce themselves a few seconds later with a thundering high-speed overflight of Arcadia City at extremely low levels. Unlike the Blackflies, the Shrikes are loud—so loud that I can hear the engine roars and supersonic cracks through the half-meter concrete ceiling of the admin center. A few seconds later, I see the blue V icons of outgoing missiles coming from our Trident teams and chasing the Shrikes across the city.

“Engaging,” Lieutenant Wolfe says. “There’s activity on the main drag. Looks like Mules, coming up the street from the south.”

“Hold them off, but retreat to the admin center before they tear you up,” I say. “We have the lower two levels cleared.”

“Copy that, Rogue One. Not looking to earn any Purple Hearts today.”

Both of the missiles our teams launched are locking on to a single Shrike. It dodges the first triplet of submunitions, but the second merges with the icon on my screen. In the distance, I hear a muffled boom.

“Hit,” Lieutenant Wolfe sends. “He’s damaged. Breaking off to the north.”

“Now they know we have Tridents on the ground,” I reply. “Watch yourselves.”

“The Mules are unloading troops,” one of the Second Platoon troopers reports. “We have incoming ground troops from grid Delta One-Three.”

“Things are about to get sporty outside,” I tell Sergeant Fallon. “What’s the holdup on the third floor?”

“Sons of bitches don’t know when it’s time to pack it in,” Sergeant Fallon replies over the sound of gunfire. “They’re defending the back staircase like they have the national treasury back there. Give me three minutes.”

Outside, there’s a sudden fusillade of gunfire. I check the tactical feed and see at least a dozen red icons advancing up the main east–west street of the settlement toward the admin plaza. The troopers of Second Platoon are redeploying from the building corners to meet the new threat. On the far side of the plaza, a Mule rolls into the square, its autocannon swiveling toward the building vestibule. I’m in the main intersection of the corridor, with a clear view out into the plaza through the ruined main doors of the admin building, and for a short and terrifying moment, my magnified vision is locked directly onto the muzzle end of a 35mm autocannon. I dart into the hallway to my right in what seems like slow motion. A second or two later, the corridor intersection to my left explodes in a burst of shrapnel and concrete shards, and the pressure from the detonation flings me to the ground like a giant hand. I land on the hard concrete of the hallway floor and skid for a meter or two before I get my bearings.

“Mule’s firing through the open door,” I warn the rest of the platoon. “Nobody come down that central staircase. They have line of sight on the whole corridor from outside. Blackfly One, we could use a hand here.”

“Copy,” Lieutenant Dorian’s static-riddled answer comes. “Rolling in hot.”

I watch as the icon for our platoon’s drop ship pops up on the tactical map to our west and then rapidly moves across the TacLink map toward the admin plaza. Then there’s the deep, rolling staccato of cannon fire outside. I toggle into the optical feed from Second Platoon and see the Mule that just rolled into the plaza rocked by the impacts of heavy-caliber autocannon shells. There’s a dull explosion inside, and one of the panels on top of the Mule flies off. Black smoke pours out of the gap in the armor.

Another Shrike comes streaking in from the north. I barely have time to shout a futile warning before the icon for the hostile attack jet and our drop shop are almost on top of each other. I hear the roaring ripsaw sound of a Shrike cannon outside. The TacLink display is alive with multiple fire-control radar cones, and there’s no more stealth to be had in the sky above Arcadia City right now.

“Motherf—” I hear on the company channel. Then there’s an inarticulate angry shout, and Blackfly One careens out of the sky and slams into a nearby cluster of colonial housing units at four hundred knots. The fireball from the impact lights up the sky outside. A second later, the crash of the explosion reaches my helmet microphones, a low thunder that makes my heart miss a beat in my chest. I am barely aware of the curse I shout into my helmet headset at the top of my lungs.

Behind the destroyed Mule, two more enter the admin plaza, guns swiveling and pumping out shells in short bursts. The audio feed on the Company channel turns into pandemonium as Second Platoon troops engage the new enemy and try to get clear of the incoming fire. With the Mules and the incoming infantry pouring into the plaza, there’s no chance of them reaching the safety of the admin building, unless the gods of battle see fit to work a miracle and strike down a platoon of troops and three armored vehicles for us.

“Blackfly One is down,” Halley sends. “Engaging with cannons.”

I want to scream into the company channel, tell her to abort that run, tell her there are three Shrikes overhead and waiting for her to break stealth and give them something to shoot at. But there’s no time, and I know she wouldn’t listen anyway.

Another burst of cannon fire churns up the pavement on the admin plaza. It rakes across the bulk of one of the Mules from nose to tail ramp, and the Mule disappears in a violent explosion that sprays armor bits against the admin building more than fifty meters away.

I can’t take my eyes away from the TacLink screen for the inevitable outcome of Halley’s incredibly brave and foolish gun run. Two Shrikes home in on her suddenly visible drop ship from her port and starboard sides. I watch as she banks hard to the right, into the path of the Shrike coming at her from the south. There’s the thunderous roar of a rotary cannon again, but Blackfly Two does not fall out of the sky. Instead, there’s a firecracker chain of explosions as the salvo from the Shrike misses and rakes across a row of colonial housing units. Halley and the Shrike pass each other on opposite headings and maybe a hundred feet of vertical separation. Then she pulls her ship up and whips the tail around until she’s flying backward at three hundred knots.

“Fuck right the hell off,” she says. I hear the thunder of her Blackfly’s cannons. The tracers from her guns reach out and touch the firefly exhaust of the Shrike’s engines, glowing at full throttle. The Shrike rolls into a starboard bank and keeps rolling, until it’s flying inverted, a long trail of flames gushing from its engines. Then it plows into the town below, digging a trench of fiery destruction across half a dozen houses.

On the ground, two more Mules push their way past the wrecks of their destroyed company mates and roll into the admin plaza, gun mounts turning. They dash toward the entrance vestibule of the admin building and lower their tail ramps. I know that one of those things usually transports a squad of troops, which means we’ll have force parity on this floor of the admin building in just a minute or two.