CHAPTER 3.

Crimson eyes burned above a row of stainless steel teeth. The snarling rodent was clad from nose to tail in riveted plate armor. Reared on its haunches in a defiant posture, the creature brandished a fistful of stiletto-blade claws. The words "RAT Squad" stood out in bold red letters. Around the perimeter of the circular crest, a black ring bore the legend: Rapid a.s.sault Team.

Ridgeway took a great deal of pride in the unit patch. RATs had been developed to conduct precision strikes in confined environments, places where tanks and jets couldn't go. Operating under a vapor-tight shroud of secrecy, RAT squads quickly established themselves in roles ranging from hostage rescue to counter-terrorism, demonstrating a unique ability to surgically excise a variety of armed malignancies in areas where traditional a.s.sault was not an option.

Looking up, Ridgeway's attention swung to the cable-covered uprights where a suit of deep grey armor stood at rigid attention. The figure, menacing even in repose, looked like a medieval knight on steroids.

The curved plates fit together like reptilian scales, with a precision that could neither be cast nor machined. These plates had been a.s.sembled one carefully-placed molecule at a time.

Carbonite was the trade name for the material, a term that proved easier on Ridgeway's tongue than the mile-long scientific handle. Unlike the metals historically used in field armor, carbonite wasn't really a solid. At some microscopic level the stuff was a dense matrix of hollow carbon nanotubes, each just a few molecules wide. Tougher than h.e.l.l, Ridgeway was told to think of carbonite as the b.a.s.t.a.r.d child of steel and diamond.

A broad shadow slid across the charging station, the silhouette unmistakable. Ridgeway's gaze remained fixed on the armor, his voice flat. "So what do you think?"

Monster never bothered with bulls.h.i.t. "It's gonna be a real b.i.t.c.h."

Ridgeway nodded quietly. No sugar coating there.

In this case though, he conceded, 'a real b.i.t.c.h' might be a charitable characterization. For a brief instant Ridgeway flashed back across the countless times that he and Monster stood poised to enter the Hyperball Cube. The old sense of antic.i.p.ation tingled in Ridgeway's spine and he could feel the acceleration of his senses, a process that would build to an electric blur by the opening gun.

Appropriate choice of phrase, he noted with a dark sense of irony. Still, Ridgeway could not dismiss the a.s.surance that came with a friendship that spanned nearly a century.

Monster had gone on to play pro ball after college, while Ridgeway followed his family tradition into life as a Marine. For nearly six years Ridgeway had followed Monster's stellar career, at times with considerable envy.

He remembered the day that celebrated career had come to a screeching halt. The hyperball world stood on end when league testing confirmed that Monster had used genetic augmentation, expensive and illegal manipulation of his genetic code, to further increase his already considerable size and muscle ma.s.s. Looking for an edge in a sport where the extreme was never enough, Monster had crossed the line and got caught.

Ridgeway saw his friend plummet from superstar to pariah; banned from the sport and bombarded with lawsuits from his team and former sponsors. Monster's life spiraled into a cloud of depression, synthehol and violence that nearly swallowed him.

With only the rank of Lieutenant at the time, Ridgeway had pushed his limits pet.i.tioning the Corps to arrange an opening for Monster, and had a.s.sumed personal responsibility for the outcome. It was only with Grissom's backing that the powers-that-be agreed, with the strict understanding that any blowback would fall entirely into Ridgeway's lap. The career-ending implications were obvious.

Ridgeway never regretted the decision and watched his friend absorb the culture of the Corps with all of the fierce intensity that had marked his play as a defensive lineman. For the last fifteen Waking Years, Monster had become a walking, talking embodiment of the super-Marine ideal.

Ridgeway tipped his head toward the cases set in a wide arc around the room. Open lids revealed an a.s.sortment of weapons and explosives. The RATs moved purposefully among them.

"We ready?"

Monster replied with a wicked grin. "We were born ready."

A faint smile creased Ridgeway's face as he saw the look in Monster's eyes. Hunger for the fight. Prep was well and good but at the end of the day, fighting was what brought them to the dance. It was time to cue up the band.

"All right partner," he emphasized with a thump of his fist against Monster's chest, "rally the troops. Full briefing in five."

"Roger that." Monster turned crisply and strode toward the team. Bodies accelerated at his approach.

Some men leave change in their wake, Ridgeway thought wryly, Monster projects change in front of him.

Five minutes later, the entire squad was seated around a featureless black cube roughly a meter square. A volumetric hologram floated in the air, rugged terrain modeled in exacting detail. Color-coded symbols marked a variety of waypoints and objectives. The image rotated slowly on its vertical axis.

"It's a quick strike op." In his usual fashion, Ridgeway jumped right to the meat of the briefing. "Confined s.p.a.ce environment, highly restrictive ingress and a strict timetable."

He tapped the remote and curtains of data flowed around the hologram. "You are looking at Vostok, a huge mining colony on the Outer Rim planet Balratha. It represents a key economic resource for whoever holds it. Fleet wants it intact, so traditional tactics like orbital bombardment are out."

"What's the non-traditional approach?" St.i.tch asked the obvious question in his usual wary tone.

"Sudden overload. Bra.s.s wants to airdrop two thousand Marines directly into the complex. With luck, the fight will be over before the Rimmers have a chance to react."

Merlin half-raised a hand. "Firehawk drop?"

As Ridgeway nodded in reply, the crease between his brows deepened. "Yeah, that's still the fastest route from s.p.a.ce to surface. But we all know the catch; they're vulnerable as h.e.l.l when they transition from ballistic freefall to aerodynamic flight. The Rimmers have outfitted Vostok with a solid air defense grid. If it's online, it'll burn a s.h.i.tload of Marines out of the sky."

"And guess who gets to kill the grid." Darcy rolled her palms up like a game show hostess presenting the Marines behind Door Number Three.

A shadow played across Merlin's eyes as he nodded slowly. "Gonna be tight."

"More than you know," Ridgeway said, not at all surprised that the engineer connected dots that hadn't yet been shown. "Throw the switch too early and the Rimmers might get backup power online. Too late and--" The image of flaming debris and dead Marines raining down from the sky flashed through Ridgeway's mind. "Too late is not an option."

Darcy leaned forward and braced her elbows on her knees. "So where's the light switch?"

Ridgeway had no way to sugar coat the answer. "The target is a reactor in an old section of the mining operation, roughly two kilometers below the surface."

The room exploded with an outpour of questions and Ridgeway paused, allowing the team to vent it's understandable surprise. Confined s.p.a.ce missions were one thing, he had told himself several times already, but deep-core tunnel ops were quite another.

Using the hologram as a battle map, Ridgeway covered the insertion, the mission objectives, and how they expected to get out. With each phase the display zoomed and rotated. Textured surfaces dissolved into clean, color-coded wireframes to provide subterranean views. At the end of the presentation, Ridgeway sat back in his chair and folded his arms. His steely eyes looked around the table. "Any comments?"

"Even if we do get past the b.l.o.o.d.y door, and crikey that's a c.o.c.ked-up plan, it'll be a real open slather."

Five Marines turned to look at Caslin's replacement, Lance Corporal Nigel "Taz" Kelly.

His odd, amber-colored eyes snapped quickly from point to point on the hologram. Their unusual hue, coupled with his sharp features, gave the young Australian a distinctly feral appearance. The spikey brown stubble that sprawled across his scalp only added to the effect. While unremarkable in terms of height and weight, he projected an aura of wiry toughness.

The junior Marine continued pa.s.sionately, oblivious to the stillness. "We'll have to root the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds out of every cranny along this part, and in the slim chance the whole b.l.o.o.d.y dunny doesn't fall on our heads, we still have to--"

Taz paused, suddenly falling as silent as the room around him. His eyes screwed shut as he muttered under his breath, "Oh b.o.l.l.o.c.ks."

Ridgeway suppressed a grim smile. "Intermittent failures of military protocol" was how it read in the personnel file. But the often volatile Marine's history had been equally marked by uncanny scores in marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat. In replacing Caslin, Ridgeway wasn't screening for decorum.

On the other hand, he mused, gritting his teeth against the grin tugging at his cheeck, maintaining professionalism was one of a Sergeant's many tasks, and one which Monster took as a personal measure of excellence. Even now Monster's entire ma.s.s flexed as he leaned forward only slightly, his right hand closed the arm of the chair. Metal and grey plastic creaked pitifully.

With the slow deliberation of someone reversing out of a minefield, Taz eased back into his chair. Both Merlin and St.i.tch shifted their gaze back to the hologram and remained motionless.

"It all hangs on the feint." Darcy placed a thin datapad on the briefing table as she spoke with a.n.a.lytical authority. "If the Rimmers don't spook when the mortars start falling, we're screwed. But if they slam the door, we're screwed as well."

Ridgeway glanced at Darcy with unspoken admiration, recognizing the none-too-subtle diversion she had thrown on Taz's behalf. While nothing would get him completely off Monster's hook, it spared the new guy a longer squirm on center stage.

Ridgeway snapped back to the plan. Regardless of her motivation, Darcy's conclusion was dead-on. He answered the implied question with a tone of confidence. "That's why the mortars have to come down right on top of us. Nowhere to run means no time to think."

Another rumble of questions erupted and Ridgeway fielded them in turn. The difficulty was undeniable, but while he shared his team's concern about the make-or-break nature of the entry, Ridgeway also understood what was at stake. He stood abruptly.

"Listen up!"

The room fell silent and Ridgeway paused for emphasis. "This is it folks, there is no Plan B. We get one shot with a couple thousand Marines betting their a.s.s that we've got what it takes."

Darcy looked around the table. Two crescents of soft blonde hair framed her face, her good looks a disarming feature that had caused many to underestimate her. With a devilish smile she summed up the moment. "Well h.e.l.l, boys, sounds like just another day in RAT-land."

A wave of testosterone-laden endors.e.m.e.nt rippled around the table. St.i.tch extended a slow fist towards the sniper, who responded by rapping his knuckles with her own.

"Too right," Taz spat with a fierce nod. Merlin joined in with a hearty "Oorah."

Ridgeway silently watched the bravado, a mechanism for dealing with tension. As he shared their hungry resolve, his gaze made contact with each Marine in turn. The look carried a silent question.

Not an eye wavered in response. The solemn nods said they would follow him to the end. Ridgeway's gusto softened for an instant under the weight of that trust. It never got any lighter.

Ridgeway slammed the door on his emotions and shifted gear into wrap-up mode. "Anything else?"

Darcy grinned as she pulled a heavy railgun into her lap, her right hand stroking the ma.s.sive scope that ran the receiver's length. A predatory gleam flashed across her blue eyes. "Sniper has everything she needs, sir."

Another m.u.f.fled "oorah" resonated from Merlin's side of the table and Ridgeway smiled in spite of himself.

"Then it's a wrap." Ridgeway clapped his hands and the RATs quickly dispersed, each to their appointed preparation.

Ridgeway glanced at the clock. Stealth drop planetside in six hours, another fifteen to reach the phase one insertion point. Two hours to get sealed up, then to wait for their cue.

Monster was right about one thing, Ridgeway thought, a dark furrow creasing his brow. This is definitely gonna be a real b.i.t.c.h.

CHAPTER 4.

Jenner poked tentatively through the coa.r.s.e carpet of hair and winced as his fingertips b.u.mped along the raw furrow in his scalp. He was stained, rumpled and badly in need of a stiff drink.

Slumped in the decently-lit garage at Cathedral's southern end, Jenner's composure slowly returned. By his own reckoning, his mood had upgraded from sheer panic to mere dismal surliness.

"Talk about a s.h.i.t day for the books," Jenner scowled. The black nylon backpack sat between his feet, his jumbled belongings draped out of the top like guts from a disemboweled carca.s.s. Half his s.h.i.t was either damaged or lost back in the tunnel. Jenner prodded listlessly at the small digital music player, its clear acrylic surface cracked and filled with moisture.

Anger overcame a well-built foundation of self-pity and Jenner hurled the ruined device, which shattered against the rear of the truck. Grumbling under his breath, Jenner allowed his gaze to sweep along the length of the metal behemoth.

The truck was a monstrous creature, over twenty meters from nose to tail. At it's highest point, he figured it had to be almost five meters tall. The drab grey cha.s.sis looked to have started life as an industrial hauler, but the resemblance ended there.

The windows were covered with the same thick armor plate that shrouded the rest of the cab. Heavy steel panels curved over the nose and down the skirt, enclosing the forward gravitic coils. Along the sides, Jenner recognized something from his brush with basic training; double-stack plates mounted on explosive bolts. His eyes narrowed.

Reactive armor, the stuff you need when someone caps a missile at your a.s.s. Jenner felt his jaw slack. Oh that can't be good.

Most of the vehicle's ma.s.s was its storage tank. Oval in cross-section, the tank was reinforced at intervals by thick metal bands that belted its girth. The outer surface of the tank, arguably a sandy beige at some point, was now discolored and pitted. Corrosion streaked down from every valve. Of the numerous messages once stenciled across the trailer, only a few were still legible. One, the designation MC-631, appeared just above a black and white diamond-shaped placard with a dissolving human hand depicted in its center.

Three dome turrets sat evenly along the tank's spine, each bristling with an array of faucets and handles. A group of braided-steel hose lines ran along the top of the trailer. Jenner could make out the word DECON stenciled along one set, and COOLANT emblazoned just beneath another.

Jenner kneeled to peer at the undercarriage. The storage tank sat on a pair of grease-covered rails that would allow mechanics to slide an empty tank off in exchange for a full one. Hex, they had repeated endlessly, was best handled slowly and carefully.

Hex; hydrogen hexafluoride. The Mother of All Acids. Jenner's gut had curled into a ball when he heard that one.

Frowning, Jenner wiped his hands across the front of his shirt as he moved to the cab. He climbed onto the running board and tapped the silver release. With a pneumatic whine the heavy door gull-winged open to reveal a dark, cluttered interior.

The cabin exuded a disconcerting blend of smells that embodied both decay and disinfectant. The sickly-sweet odor of antifreeze seeped up from the badly stained floor mats while the upholstery reeked of old cigar smoke.

"S'matter boy? Lose the keys already?"

Jenner practically jumped from his seat at the unexpected voice. The figure at the door looked to be in his early sixties, though his physique still carried the lean hardness of someone familiar with work. Swatches of grey at his temples were well on their way to overrunning the last vestiges of brown tenaciously holding ground on his skull. His skin had the texture of tanned leather left too long in the sun, although how anybody could catch a few rays down here struck Jenner as something of a mystery.

Too surprised to reply, Jenner watched mutely as the old man fished a soiled red rag from his pocket for what seemed to be the sole purpose of exchanging the grime on his hands for older grime that had been saved on an earlier date. Neither the rag nor the hands came away any cleaner, but the hand rose up and reached into the open doorway.

"Briggs. Hank Briggs." Stained teeth remained clenched on the wreck of an old cigar.

"Hey," Jenner took the offered hand, thankful at the moment just to have some human company. "Uh, I mean, Private Jenner, sir." He fumbled to follow the handshake with a sloppy salute, the two gestures colliding haphazardly.

Briggs snorted. "Don't 'sir' me boy, I'm a sergeant, I work for a living." Then, a little more casually, "Briggs'll do just fine."

Like most things in Jenner's new career, the rebuff seemed to reflect some tidbit of military culture beyond his understanding. But the fact that Briggs didn't make a federal case out of the whole rank thing was a good sign. The sergeant didn't seem at all like the ORA hardliners, most of whom Jenner felt took themselves and their little army routine far too seriously. Looking at Brigg's rumpled figure, Jenner wondered if all the f.u.c.k-ups got flushed to the garbara heap at the bottom of the mine.

Without waiting for comment or invitation, Briggs climbed into the cab and launched into what seemed a well-worn lecture. Briggs' job was to handle all the complicated equipment while Jenner drove. The apparent simplicity of that a.s.sertion failed to deter the sergeant's obviously h.e.l.l-bent desire to point out every switch, dial and display in the cluttered c.o.c.kpit.

Jenner's mind glazed over six minutes into the diatribe. His gaze meandered up a cl.u.s.ter of instruments on the cab's ceiling and fixed on a small hinged cover made of red plastic. He half-heartedly reached up to see what was hidden beneath.

"Don't even think about it." The icy tone stopped Jenner in mid-reach.

The private s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand back as though from a snake. "What, what?"

Briggs eyed him with a flat, cold stare as his square jaw worked steadily on the cigar. Several seconds pa.s.sed in dead silence. Jenner had become familiar with the tactic; authority figure trying to decide if a lecture was warranted. In his mind Jenner paced off a silent cadence.

One thousand one, one thousand two-- At one thousand six, the sergeant spoke. Jenner felt a twinge of relief when Briggs went straight into the answer without a nagging preamble.

"Detonator."

Any onset of relief vanished in an instant. "Detonator?" Jenner's tone jumped a full octave, "you mean like for a bomb?"

In mute reply, Briggs reached forward and tapped a switch on the dash. With a soft hiss of compressed air, the back wall of the cab slid open to reveal a sizable compartment, as wide as the vehicle and roughly a meter and a half tall. The inner walls were lined with yet another layer of armor plate, keloids of welded metal marking the seams where panel edges met. The left and right walls carried an impressive array of electronics. In the darkness, a myriad of tiny diodes flashed in ever-changing colors.