Lower down, the dome-shaped bunkers intended to prevent infantry from charging up the slope were on fire, and two SCVs could be seen trying to extinguish the flames. But others were intact and putting out a heavy volume of fire. They would be critical if the men and women of Firebase Zulu were going to hold on.
Meanwhile, troops wearing a wild assortment of refurbished CMC armor were battling their way up the hill as fire lashed back and forth. One of the KM soldiers was equipped with a sculpted helmet he had picked up somewhere, armor plates that were bound together with a variety of leather straps, and a bandolier of ammo pouches.
Raynor couldn’t help but admire the man’s bravery as he paused to wave his comrades forward, only to disappear in a flash of light as a shoulder-launched rocket hit him from behind. The resulting BOOM was nearly lost in the chatter of assault weapons, the steady beat of a gauss cannon, and the dull thump of mortar rounds as they cut unlucky soldiers down. Each death left a red blotch on the face of the hillside.
“Get off the highway!” Raynor shouted, and waved his troops into the orchard off to the right. Some of the gnarled fruit trees had been shattered by artillery fire during a previous battle, but enough remained to provide cover, and Raynor went person to person until all of the marines were organized into four-man fire teams. Except for Kydd, Harnack, and Zander, that is, who were sent forward to find a path. Was that the right thing to do? Raynor thought so, because it was consistent with what he’d been taught. “Run, think, and shoot.” That’s what Gunnery Sergeant Red Murphy always said. But thinking was the hardest part. What if he was wrong?
Raynor waited for a break in the comm traffic to announce himself. All transmissions on both sides were automatically scrambled and descrambled. Raynor didn’t have a call sign, so he made one up. “Zulu-Two-Three to Zulu-Six. Over.”
There was a long pause, followed by a burst of static, and a suspicious voice. “Zulu-who? Over.”
“Corporal Hawkes can vouch for me,” Raynor replied. “In the meantime this is to let you know that we are half a mile north of the firebase and closing with the KM armor. We will attempt to put some of those personnel carriers out of action. That should bring at least a few of their troops back downhill. So be careful who you shoot at. Over.”
This time the response was quick and precise. “This is Zulu-Six. I scan you, Two-Three … and I like the way you think. Execute. Over.”
Harnack, Kydd, and Zander had returned by then and were ready with a report. “We found a path,” Harnack announced. “It leads down the gully in front of us, up along that stone wall, and in behind those outbuildings. The personnel carriers are a stone’s throw beyond that point.”
“Okay,” Raynor agreed. “You’ll lead us up there. Meanwhile, I want Kydd and Zander to head for what’s left of the farmhouse and set up shop there. Ryk, see how many of the KMs climbing the hillside you can bring down, and don’t worry about your six. Max will take care of that. Right, Max?”
Zander’s eyes were very bright. He nodded. “Count on it.”
“All right,” Raynor said. “Get going.”
The farmhouse was off to the right, where it sat inside what had been a rectangle of trees before some of them were destroyed during an earlier battle. The structure itself had taken a hit, and been partially burned. But half of the second story was still intact—and Kydd knew that was where Raynor wanted him to go. Because from up there his long-barreled rifle would be able to reach all the way up the hillside, to the point where the Kel-Morian guerillas had already destroyed two bunkers plus the SCVs sent out to repair them.
So time was of the essence as he ran, hunched over, behind the stone wall that ran east to west across the farm, and scrambled up the slope behind the house. He was about to pass through the back door when Zander grabbed hold of his combat harness and jerked him back.
Then, holding one finger up to his lips, the shorter man went in through the back door, E-9 rifle at the ready. Five seconds passed, followed by two shots, which brought Kydd on the run. The kitchen was empty, but as the sniper entered the hallway beyond, he heard a low whistle, and looked up a staircase to see Zander motioning from above.
Kydd made his way up the stairs to where a Kel-Morian soldier lay dead in the middle of a debris-littered hallway. A comm unit rested inches from his fingertips. “He was an observer,” Zander said evenly. “Pick your spot. I’ll be down below making sure that no one sneaks up on you.”
“Take the comm,” Kydd suggested. “And listen in. Maybe you’ll hear if they’re sending people this way.”
Zander nodded, scooped the comm up off the floor, and disappeared down the stairs.
Secure in the knowledge that Zander would cover him, Kydd entered a bedroom and made his way over to a shattered window. Something bit into his knee as he placed it on the floor. A bit of broken glass, most likely, but the cut could be dealt with later.
The sill was high enough to provide a good rest for the long-barreled rifle, and having already chambered a .50 caliber round, all he had to do was put his eye to the scope and tilt the weapon upward. It was a moment Kydd had given a good deal of thought to in boot camp—because killing a real human being was no small thing. But when he saw the desperation of the scene before him, his doubts faded away.
A group of Kel-Morians had closed in on the last defensive bunker and one was using a flamethrower to cook the people inside. And those people were Kydd’s people—even if he hadn’t met them before. And the fact that he couldn’t see the KMs’ faces made it that much easier for the sniper to consult the data displayed on his HUD and make some final adjustments before shifting gears.
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.