The crosshairs settled over the target. Time seemed to slow as Kydd’s right index finger began to squeeze the trigger, then there was the moment of release as the rifle butt kicked his shoulder, and the weapon released a bang so loud it made his ears ring. That was when the heavy slug plowed through the air, Kydd realized he had forgotten to put his earplugs in, and his right hand worked the bolt as if it was operating without input from his brain.
Then the bullet was there, striking the Kel-Morian guerilla behind the left knee, where his armor was weakest. It wasn’t a lethal shot, nor was it intended to be. Kydd’s FN92 ammo was designed to pierce armor, but the sniper didn’t want to take unnecessary chances. His mission was to bring the enemy soldiers down and bring them down fast. The slug smashed through armor, destroyed the Kel-Morian’s knee joint, and bounced off the rounded cap designed to protect him from frontal shots.
As the soldier fell, his self-sealing suit was already injecting painkillers into his bloodstream and applying a tourniquet to his lower leg. So by the time he rolled down the slope to the bottom of the hill he was out of action for good.
But Kydd wasn’t thinking about the first Kel-Morian anymore. He was focused on the third, and lost in the aim-fire-reload sequence of what he was not only doing, but doing well. Better than he’d done in school, better than he’d done working for his father part-time, and better than he had ever hoped to do. And it felt good, very good, as the fourth target fell and he forced himself to pause.
“Save the last round long enough to look around,” Sergeant Peters had told him. “Because some bastard could be closing in on you. Then, if it’s safe to do so, take your final shot before loading the next magazine.”
Kydd scanned, came up empty, and fired. The target wasn’t wearing armor this time and his head blossomed into a bloody mist. Kydd barely noticed. A killer had been born.
It had taken the better part of fifteen long minutes for Raynor and Harnack to get all the other marines into position in and around the farm’s outbuildings. Such a thing would have been impossible had the Kel-Morian overseer placed some soldiers north of his armored personnel carriers. But, having met only minimal resistance as he swept into the area at the base of the hill, and eager to take Firebase Zulu quickly, the overseer had apparently chosen to send all his troops against the objective.
Now, as Raynor prepared to lead his fellow marines into battle, he suddenly felt short of breath, his heart racing. He was frightened—not for his own safety, but because of his lack of experience and the possibility that he might screw up. So it took an act of will to emerge from hiding, wave his troops forward, and shout: “Follow me!”
Two fire teams remained behind to provide covering fire. The rest of the marines charged across the intervening space, firing as they ran. All of the Kel-Morian turret gunners were shooting uphill. That left their lightly armored backs exposed, and two died almost immediately as slugs ripped into them from behind.
Then the marines were on three of the vehicles, shooting down into the compartments below, but they lacked enough manpower to tackle the rest. The Kel-Morians turned all of their weapons on the captured personnel carriers, and Raynor saw three of the marines closest to the enemy swept away by a hail of spikes. His heart sank. Was Omer one of them?
Enraged, Raynor climbed up onto the nearest carrier and jerked a dead gunner up out of her firing position. Projectiles pinged, spanged, and rattled as they peppered the metal around him. Having dropped into the blood-splashed turret, Raynor placed both boots on the shiny pedals below. There was a satisfying whine as the double-barreled weapon swung around and came to bear on the enemy. The KMs saw the threat, and Raynor felt his anger turn into fear as the vehicle took hit after hit.
That was when Raynor thumbed both triggers and sent parallel streams of spikes toward the carriers that were still under KM control. The overlapping explosions merged to produce a continuous roar of sound as the devastating rounds ate their way through layers of neosteel armor to seek out the ammo bins within.
Raynor’s entire body was shaking in reaction to the adrenaline pumping through it. He was shouting words he couldn’t understand and wondering if the moment would ever end. Then came an earthshaking CRUMP! as a pillar of fire propelled the top of the enemy vehicle fifteen feet into the air, where it appeared to hang momentarily before crashing down.
Raynor sensed movement to his right, swiveled his weapons in that direction, and was preparing to open fire on a new target when a much-amplified voice was heard. “This is Zulu-Six… . Hold your fire! The battle is over.”
It took a moment to process the officer’s words, but once he did, Raynor pushed himself up and out of the turret. He looked around at the scene. The few remaining Kel-Morian soldiers were being disarmed and taken into Confed custody.
Raynor took a deep breath as he looked down at his hands. They were smeared with blood. He wiped them on his pants but the red stuff wouldn’t come off.
Then, as Raynor surveyed the scene around him, he was overwhelmed with guilt. Both the area around the vehicles and the hillside above it were strewn with dead bodies. An empty feeling flooded the pit of his stomach, and Raynor was forced to reswallow a portion of his lunch. He took a quick look around, fearful that someone had spotted his weakness, and was glad to see that his friends were busy with other things as he jumped to the ground and ran to the point where he thought he’d seen Omer go down.
The ground around Omer was covered with blood. Plastiscab battle dressings covered one side of his chest, and the lower part of the soldier’s left arm was missing. One of the firebase’s medics was working on him, and Raynor could tell that the painkillers had kicked in, because Omer smiled dreamily as he looked up. “One battle … that’s all I was good for. Now they’re probably gonna send me home.”
“Maybe not … I’m sure they can patch you right up.” Raynor smiled. “Your parents will be proud,” Raynor said, as he knelt next to his friend. “Real proud.”
Omer frowned. “I was scared, Jim… . Were you scared?”
“I was very scared. I think I crapped my pants.”
Omer managed a laugh. “I’ll tell your parents about everything.”
“Tell them about boot camp,” Raynor responded. “But not about this.”
“No,” Omer replied soberly. “I won’t tell them about this.”
As Omer was carried away, Raynor heard the whine of servos and the thump of heavy feet. He turned to face a suit of battle-scarred armor. There was a soft hiss as the visor opened and a man peered at Raynor. He had blue eyes, and deep creases bracketed both sides of his mouth. “I’m Captain Senko—otherwise known as Zulu-Six. Are you Zulu-Two-Three by any chance?”
Raynor nodded.
“I thought so… . You and your team did a good job. A real good job.”
“Thank you, sir… . I’ll pass that along.” The officer turned to leave. “Sir?” Raynor broke in. “How many people did we lose? Or is it too early to say?”
Senko placed an enormous hand on Raynor’s shoulder. It felt heavy. “The same as always, son … we lost too damned many.”
And that, Raynor discovered over the next few hours, was absolutely true.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Any member of the armed services caught removing military assets from a government installation without sanction will be tried as an enemy agent and subject to the death penalty.”