Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment (42 page)

“Bloody hell,” Becker said, his back flattened against a tree. “All right, mate. Like it or not, he’s on his own. If anybody can do it, he can. In the meantime, we need to hold the buggers off until help arrives.”

“I hear ya,” Tony said, but he wasn’t happy about it.

“
Thirty-eight targets acquired
,” updated
Mother Ship
.

“Andrew’s been hit!” someone shouted over the comm.

“This way!” Becker said. He took off in a low crouch.

Tony followed. He heard the sharp crack of Jonesy’s sniper rifle behind them. The kid had found his perch. There was so much return fire that it sounded like a string of Chinatown firecrackers. Hot lead shredded branches overhead.

Becker and Tony tore through the dense foliage. Ten paces later, they found Andrew. The young operator was on his butt behind a tree. His left arm hung loose at his side. The bullet had hit him square in the bicep. It must have shattered the bone.
Rivulets of blood dripped from his fingers. His face was white, his eyes glassy.

Becker slid to the boy’s side.

Tony took up a cover position. He sighted down his red-dot scope and loosed short bursts. A man went down. Then another. Tony ducked behind a tree as a volley of return fire ripped past him. He felt the jackhammer blows of several rounds impacting the opposite side of the trunk. A green coconut dropped at his feet.

Becker yanked a tourniquet from his pack and cinched it above Andrew’s wound. “Hang in there, kid,” he said. “This one’s no deal-breaker.” He stabbed an autoinjector of morphine into his shoulder.

“
Thirty-four targets acquired
,” reported
Mother Ship
.

That’s four less than a few seconds ago, Tony thought. But he was sure that Becker’s team had brought down more than that, which meant enemy reinforcements were continuing to pour in.

Tony loaded an HE—high explosive—round into the M203 grenade launcher affixed to his rifle, checking his wrist screen to get a general idea of enemy positions. A cluster of six icons appeared to be attempting to flank them on the left. He switched to his weapon-mounted camera and edged the barrel around the tree. As soon as he targeted movement, he squeezed the trigger. The hollow thump of the launch was followed by a sharp explosion. Tony loaded and fired a second round in less than four seconds. When he switched back to overhead view, only two of the icons were moving. But they continued on a flanking track. Then another group of icons appeared out of nowhere and followed them. More of Victor’s men were burrowing out of the ground.

“
Forty-one targets acquired.
”

That ain’t good, Tony thought. He’d seen more than his share of action, and more often than not, he’d been in some tough situations. But none worse than this. An exchanged glance with Becker revealed that he felt it, too.

This battle was getting away from them.

“Teams three and four are feet dry,” Cal reported from the chopper.

“It took us more than thirty minutes to get here,” Tony said to Becker. “Even if they beat feet on the trail we blazed, they still can’t get here in less than fifteen.”

Becker knew the math. But his grimace was short-lived. He gave Tony a stiff nod and said, “Then I guess it’s time to pull a roo out of the sack.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Becker pulled out the placard Timmy had given him, studying it a moment. He kept his eyes on it while he spoke into his boom mike. “
Mother Ship
. Engage offensive systems.”

“
Authenticate.
”

“Becker. Five-seven-seven-two.”

“
Offensive systems engaged.
”

Gunfire intensified all around them. The team was fully engaged.

“Throwing frag grenade!” someone shouted. An explosion split the trees to Tony’s right.

Becker continued to read from the card. “Target Designation Mode.”

“
Target Designation Mode.
”

“I’m hit!” Operator Phillips said over the comm.

Another operator responded. “I’ve got Philly!”

“Perimeter Assault Code Five,” Becker commanded.

“
Identify proximity point.
”

“My location,” Becker replied.

“Last mag!” one of the operators shouted.

“
Proximity point accepted.
”

“Designate targets one through twenty,” Becker said.

“
Targets one through twenty designated.
”

Tony checked his screen. The twenty enemy icons closest to their location began to blink.

Becker glanced at his own screen. Then he said, “Targets confirmed.”

“
Targets one through twenty designated and confirmed.
”

The foliage on either side of them erupted from a blistering hail of bullets. More rounds bored into the trunk at Tony’s back. He slipped his selector to full auto and sprayed blindly over his shoulder.

Becker hesitated a moment. His eyes narrowed on the placard as if to make sure he was reading it right. Then he blew out a breath and said, “
Mother Ship
, go native.”

“
Confirm
go native
command
.”

“
Go native
confirmed!” Becker shouted.

Mother Ship
hovered high behind them. Tony switched his screen to overhead camera view. He saw Becker, Andrew, and himself directly below. Then he caught glimpses of enemy movement among the dense vegetation in several locations ahead of them. The nearest was less than thirty meters away.

Suddenly, a swarm of shimmering hornets darted into view from behind the lens of
Mother Ship
’s camera. Each of the silvery objects had a bulbous torso and vibrating translucent wings. The swarm of robotic insects darted toward the canopy. They peeled off in scattered formations of two or three in a pack, vanishing into the jungle.

Going native, Tony thought.

“Weapons hold!” Becker ordered on the comm net. He didn’t want their crossfire to interfere with
Mother
’s assault.

That’s when Tony heard the first scream.

He grimaced. It reminded him of the shriek someone made when he’d been splattered with napalm. The worst kind of pain.

A chorus of death screams followed. Enemy gunfire faltered.

Becker zoomed
Mother’
s camera on one of several plumes of white smoke up ahead. Tony watched as a soldier writhed on his back. His palms were pressed to his eyes, and his mouth stretched wide in a silent scream. His shoulders, neck, and face were scorched. Licks of flame danced across bubbling skin.

White phosphorus, Tony thought with a shudder. The miniature dive bombs had detonated directly in front of each target’s face. Death was certain. But not slow.

“
Targets one through twenty destroyed
,”
Mother Ship
stated matter-of-factly.

The screen zoomed back to a high-altitude tactical view. The icons representing the enemy’s front line were motionless. The ones farther back were in full-scale retreat.

“Not a pretty sight,” Becker said.

“Never is,” Tony agreed. “But it may have given us the window we need.”

Becker nodded. “Join up at the falls,” he ordered the team.

Tony heaved Andrew over his shoulder. The soldier grunted, but he didn’t cry out. Becker retrieved the man’s weapon, and they trotted toward the water.

Jonesy was already there. He’d taken a knee. His rifle was trained on the tree line.

Tony set Andrew down with his back to a boulder. The kid grimaced. His eyes were dulled from the morphine. But he nodded and said, “Thanks, mate. I owe you one.”

Two operators pushed through the brush and took up cover positions at the perimeter. Sergeant Fletcher and another operator were next. Philly hung between them. His arms draped over their shoulders. His head bounced loosely, and both of his legs dragged. A grim-faced shake of the head by the sergeant told them he hadn’t made it.

Damn, Tony thought. One dead, one seriously wounded, and Jake probably drowned. Teams three and four were only halfway between the beach and their position. He hoped they got here soon.

The temporary lull wouldn’t last long.

Grid Countdown: 1h:40m:30s

The Island
5:51 a.m.

A
SINGLE GLANCE
at Hans’s expression was all it took for the Cristal champagne in Victor’s mouth to transition from sweet to bitter. He set his stemmed glass down on a passing server’s tray. It was his third. He was in the viewing room.

The sea of dignitaries parted as Hans stormed toward him, and a hush fell over the crowd. “They aren’t pirates,” Hans said, making no effort to lower his voice.

“Explain,” Victor said calmly. He allowed his expression to show modest concern. But the alarm that churned in his gut threatened to burst out, bolstered by the effects of the champagne. He chided himself for the weakness.

“Australian commandos,” Hans said. “Nine or ten of them.”

Victor felt a jolt of fear. All eyes were on him, and he struggled to maintain his composure as he collected himself—drawing strength from the signature training session that had changed his life:

Victor was twelve years old. It was a Sunday evening. Mother was on a trip, and the staff had gone home. He and his father ate fruit and cheese at the kitchen table. He watched as his father bit
into a third slice of the pear, burying his excitement beneath a practiced veil of indifference.

His father had taught him well.

Ever since that first lesson after his dog had died so many years ago, Victor had practiced in front of the mirror, training himself to appear calm and collected under the most extreme circumstances. He’d started by cutting himself with a knife, teaching his features to remain smooth during the pain. When that had brought unwanted attention from his mother, he’d progressed to mice and rats—drinking in their squeals. He’d been proud of his progress.

But his father hadn’t been satisfied.

He’d watched his son like a breeder would a show dog. No sign of weakness went unnoticed. A twitch. A sniff. A brief narrowing of the eyes. Father had recorded them all in his mental notebook, to be revisited later during a private session.

The riding crop had always been within reach.

Over time, Victor’s fear of his father had turned to shame. He’d wanted desperately to succeed, so he’d practiced at school, feigning emotions where none existed, ingratiating himself to those he cared nothing about, or picking fights with bigger kids and smiling through the pummeling.

But it hadn’t been enough. His father had still found fault.

Eventually, Victor had moved on to domestic pets for his private sessions. Their mournful pleas had touched him deeply, helping him to hone his skills.

But Father kept on him…

And Victor’s shame turned to hate.

It had all led to that special night, when father and son were seated at the kitchen table. Victor made casual conversation while his father downed the last slice of the drugged fruit. Fifteen minutes later, the lord of Castle Brun awoke to find himself gagged and tied to a chair in the tack room of the castle stables. Young Victor stood before him. He held a knife in one hand.

And a mirror in the other.

The next morning, the castle was crowded with people. Victor’s mother had returned. Smoke lingered in the air from the accidental fire that had consumed the stables and killed Joseph Brun. His body had been burned to the bone in the intense flames. Family and friends had gathered to console the grieving widow—and the poor child who had witnessed the event.

The boy’s touching expressions of sadness brought tears to their eyes.

“Four squads are engaged,” Hans continued. He placed a hand to his ear. Another report was coming in through his earbud. “They’re taking heavy fire. Several casualties. But we have them surrounded.”

The jovial atmosphere in the room had vanished. Champagne glasses were abandoned. People gathered closer to listen to Hans’s report. Their tension was palpable. Victor didn’t like it. This was the Order elite. They were expected to maintain their composure, especially at this juncture.

Victor sensed an abrupt shift in Hans’s comportment as he listened to another incoming message. The man’s physical tells shouted that it was more bad news.

“Well done, Hans,” Victor said before Hans relayed the message. He patted the man on his shoulder—something he rarely did. “I’m glad that your teams have it well in hand.”

Hans understood. He kept his mouth shut.

Victor retrieved another glass of champagne and turned to the gathering. With a confident smile, he held up his glass and said, “To the culmination of a thousand years of planning.” When they all found their glasses and raised them into the air, he added, “
Cæli Regere
!”

“
Cæli Regere
!” everyone chimed in. Several of them blew out sighs of relief.

Victor took a sip, placed his glass on a tray, and excused himself from those closest to him. He moved casually toward the far side of the room. Hans was at his side. For the benefit of those
still eavesdropping, Victor said, “I’m sorry for the loss of your men, my friend. We will do something special for their families.”