Harnack’s firebat suit was impervious to small-arms fire, so with Raynor and Tychus to guard both flanks, he was able to make his way up to the barricade and send a tongue of fire in through the gap. The bus caught fire, the gas stored in its tank exploded, and a hole appeared. The resocialized marines stormed through. Two of them went down, and it was necessary for Tychus to step on one of them to reach the other side.
Unfortunately, the next barrier was harder to overcome. Two sloths were positioned about a block away, and as the first barricade fell, both opened fire. “This way!” Sanchez shouted as she took a sudden left and led the team up a plascrete ramp and into a parking garage. The tanks were still firing at the marines and rangers as the group continued to climb.
Once they arrived on the roof it would have been a simple matter to cut across it and make the twelve-foot jump to the next building, had it not been for the Kel-Morian dropship that was sitting on top of the garage!
Even as the Confederates continued to charge forward, a group of unarmored Kel-Morian regulars spilled out of the dropship’s belly and opened fire. Raynor saw their weapons sparkle and heard the insistent rattle of small-caliber bullets as they hit his armor, but really couldn’t feel much.
A few of the enemy soldiers were armed with rocket launchers, however, and Raynor saw a bright flash as a ranger’s legs were cut out from under him and his hardskin cauterized the bleeding stumps. He was screaming by then, but only until a noncom cut him out of the comm net, so that orders could be given.
Doc was there seconds later, kneeling in a pool of blood as she eyed the scanner in the palm of her hand. Thanks to a link with the suit’s CPU she could see the patients’ vital signs. She did the best she could to comfort the soldier, as she opened the safety clasps and applied plastiscab dressings to the raw stumps. Having treated such injuries before, she knew what was on the soldier’s mind.
“Don’t worry,” Doc said kindly, as bullets whipped around her. “They missed your balls. We’ll strap a pair of electro-mechanical sticks onto you, reprogram part of your brain, and voilà! You’ll be good as new.”
It looked as though the advance was about to stall out when Tychus shot two Kel-Morian regulars and got close enough to toss a grenade into one of the dropship’s air intakes. The bomb exploded inside the starboard engine; it blew up, and a fuel tank went with it.
Sanchez yelled, “Duck!” and most people did, as a fireball floated up into the sky and the dropship’s retros fired for the very last time. Then, having achieved an altitude of about six feet, the ship crashed onto the roof and broke into three large pieces. All of which continued to burn.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Ward said contentedly. “Burn, you bastards.”
Zander slipped a set of rockets into the empty launch tubes on Ward’s shoulders. “I’m out of reloads,” Zander said. “You only have four rockets left. Use them wisely.”
“Roger that,” Ward rumbled, as he hefted his gauss cannon. “Meet Mister Backup!”
Both men were overridden as Sanchez ran toward the edge of the roof. “This is Alpha-One-Six, follow me!” She was picking up speed, and about to jump the gap that separated the garage from the building next to it, when a sniper hidden somewhere in the densely packed buildings on the hill in front of them squeezed his trigger. The first bullet hit her visor. The second passed through her right eye. The officer took two additional steps, toppled forward, and fell straight down.
Tychus, who was second in command, swore as Sanchez disappeared between the two buildings. “Kydd!” he shouted, as the rest of the Devils sought cover. “Find that bastard and kill him!”
Kydd was already on the job. He was crouched behind the low wall that circled the roof, scanning the rampart-like blast walls on the hill. The acoustic targeting system built into his suit fed information to his HUD. The other sniper was somewhere on the hill, but he already knew that. The rifle, which was normally so heavy, seemed a good deal lighter now that he was wearing powered armor.
The sun was just starting to rise, so the eastern side of the comsat station was glazed with silvery light, and a dark shadow fell toward the west. Eventually the daylight would be helpful. But for the moment the overall light level was still relatively low, the effectiveness of Kydd’s night vision equipment was starting to fade, and there were so many targets on the fortification it was impossible to know which one to shoot at. Assuming the enemy sniper was visible, that is—and odds were that he was too smart for that.
Making the situation worse was the fact that once Kydd fired at one Kel-Morian, the rest would seek cover. So what he needed to do was draw the other sniper out, get the sonofabitch to reveal himself, and take him out with the first shot. “This is Alpha-Two-Five,” Kydd said into his comm unit. “I need someone to draw fire. Don’t show yourself for long, though… . This guy is good.”
Raynor was hidden behind the concrete structure that capped a set of stairs. He felt himself step out into the open, and wondered if the armor was making him foolishly overconfident. He experienced an enormous sense of relief when nothing happened, resolved to count to three before ducking into cover, and was on two when what felt like a sledgehammer struck his helmet. Raynor felt a brief moment of pain, followed by a long fall, and a sudden stop as his suit hit the ground. He heard Tychus shout, “Doc! Jim is down … Get your butt in gear, damn it!” Then he was gone.
Kydd was completely unaware that Raynor had been hit. All of his mental and physical energy was focused on locating and killing the Kel-Morian sniper who was concealed somewhere on the hillside in front of him. So when the enemy marksman fired, and Kydd saw the momentary wink of light that signaled a muzzle flash, he slipped into the fugue state he had first experienced on the firing range in boot camp. To him, it came easily, as though he had entered an alternate reality in which time slowed, enabling him to shift the crosshairs on his telescopic sight half an inch to the right, and consider the crosswind that could nudge the .50 caliber slug off course—all the while allowing for the chance that the fraction-of-a-second lag created by his armor could throw off his aim.
The rifle had an enlarged trigger guard, making it possible for armored fingers to access it. And the highly specialized weapon was equipped with a two-stage trigger. That meant once the trigger was activated, and the initial slack was taken out of the mechanism, only a very light touch would be required to drop the firing pin on the round in the chamber and send death spinning through the air.
So as the target began a slow-motion pullback, preparatory to disappearing altogether, Kydd applied the necessary amount of pressure and felt the trigger “break,” as the first stage was released. Then, having taken a deep breath and let it out, he ordered his right index finger to contract.
The report was muffled because of his helmet, and the recoil was negligible thanks to Kydd’s hardskin. It was his duty to kill the Kel-Morian, but it was personal too, because even though she was a few years older than he was, Kydd had developed feelings for Samantha Sanchez.
So as time jerked forward, and the heavy slug blew the top of the other sniper’s head off, Kydd felt a primal sense of exultation. He could almost hear Sanchez say, “Good shot, Private Kydd … okay, what are you people waiting for? An engraved invitation? We have a hill to climb.”
As he imagined her voice, a lump formed in his throat. He wished he’d had the guts to give her the chocolates he had purchased for her, rather than allowing Tychus to swipe them for Doc’s birthday. He felt like such a coward.