Supercritical Page 2

  “Still nothin’ movin.’”

  “All right, Bryce. Put this big bitch in park,” Nick said, strapping his M4A1 assault rifle over his chest and grabbing a pair of TotalVis goggles from an overhead storage bin. The metal fingers on his left hand, the ring and small finger, banged against the bottom of the bin, but Nick didn’t feel a thing. He was lucky, as he hadn’t gotten sand in them back at the beach—they’d locked up a few months ago thanks to a freak dust storm, and had been useless for almost a week.

  “You’re not going out there alone,” Christopher said, shaking his head.

  “Nope. Daniel, you’re up. Keep an overwatch. You can cover me. Mike and Pete can cover you with the 50s if need be,” Nick said, slipping the goggles on and switching them to night vision.

  Before Christopher could object again, he hopped out the Razor’s back hatch, his M4 held low with his finger hovering over the trigger.

  “In position, boss. You’re clear to proceed,” Daniel’s voice buzzed in the small tactical radio in Nick’s left ear.

  He looked back to see Daniel lying low on top of the Razor, seemingly floating nine feet off the ground thanks to the huge vehicle’s adaptive camouflage.

  “Roger that. On the move,” Nick said quietly, knowing the throat mic attached to his radio would pick up any whisper and transmit it back to Daniel and the Razor’s crew in perfect clarity.

  He crept low, keeping his M4 ready to fire as he got closer to the huge Ural truck. Through the TotalVis’ night-vision mode, he saw that the truck’s front axle had snapped in two.

  “Looks like the Ural is Tango Uniform,” Nick radioed.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Christopher’s voice buzzed in his ear.

  “Sorry. Marine talk. Means tits up. Fried. Wrecked,” Nick whispered.

  “They teach you that in your two weeks of OTS?” Christopher asked.

  “Nah. Don’t remember where I picked that up, really.”

  “We got some movement, boss,” Daniel radioed.

  “Wildlife?”

  A single shot whizzed by Nick’s right ear, shattering the Ural’s windshield and dropping the driver, who fell out through the door and hit the ground.

  “Nope. Natives,” Daniel said as sudden gunfire lit up the night.

  Nick dropped to the cold, damp ground.

  “Told you this was a bad idea,” Christopher chided.

  “Not the time, Chris,” Nick grunted, firing his M4 at the muzzles flashing in front of him. He counted ten, but two of them immediately stopped flashing as he fired.

  “Rear cameras are clear. They were hiding behind the Ural just waiting for someone to come along,” Anthony radioed.

  “Mike, Pete, I could use some support here. Spare the Ural if you can,” Nick said, choosing another target and firing.

  “On it, boss,” Peter King’s voice came over the radio, a second before the high-speed booming of the Razor’s two dual-50-caliber turrets drowned out every other sound in the world.

  Five seconds later, the booming stopped. Nick cautiously got up to one knee, his M4 in front of him, but no one was shooting.

  “Daniel?”

  “Lot of corpses. No movement.”

  “Keep your eyes open in case we missed someone. I’m moving up.”

  Nick crouched low and ran double-time toward the motionless truck, taking care not to trip over any of the dead soldiers he and his crew had just dispatched. They were Russian Rebels, he saw as he moved over them. They wore Russian Army uniforms that were two years out of date and had red armbands on the left arm. When the Chinese had invaded Russia in late 2018, about half the Russian military had joined them and North Korea.

  “Rebels,” Nick said.

  “Figured,” Christopher radioed back.

  As Nick made it around the back of the truck, he found it open. His TotalVis corrected for the lack of light inside the truck in about a second and a half, revealing that there were no more guards inside, but there were crates stacked from the floor to the truck’s canvas roof. Nick didn’t know much Russian at all, but he recognized the symbols 47—Avtomat Kalashnikova 47, or, as it was more commonly known, AK-47.

  “Nick? What’ve we got, boss?” Chris radioed.

  “Something that’s going to make us very popular back at the base,” Nick said, grinning.

  Chapter Two

  Machine Gun Etiquette

  “Safe range. Chances are good they’re picking up some electronic signatures through our stealth leaks,” Anthony said as the Razor rumbled slowly through the night, towing the wrecked Ural truck behind it. The young man ran his hands through his short, dark hair and blinked rapidly.

  Nick wondered how long the convict had been at his station without a break.

  “Fuel’s almost bone dry, boss. We were running on half cylinders anyway, and hauling that big-ass broken truck along with us ain’t doing us any favors,” Mary reported from the back of the huge vehicle.

  “All right, Anthony. Get on the comms. Identify as friendly and let them know we’re coming in,” Nick said.

  “Right on. Camp Rattlesnake, Grid-118 South, this is Razor 4-7 Echo SRF transmitting on 1-9 Victor. Anyone copy?”

  “Copy, 4-7. This is 1-5 MEU.”

  Marines, Nick thought. The 15th Marine Expeditionary Unit. Real marines, not convicts. Don’t think we’ll get much of a warm welcome.

  Though the convict soldiers outnumbered their military counterparts five to one, they weren’t treated as real soldiers. At best they were barely tolerated, and at worst seen as nothing more than talking human shields for the real soldiers. Nick was a real Marine, a former convict turned officer, so he knew he wouldn’t be fucked with, but his friends…all of them were convicts doing life plus. Depending on the type of day the guys in the 1-5 were having, it could be a rough pit stop.

  “One-five, we’re approximately two kliks out, running on stealth and hauling heavy cargo. We’re pretty shot up. Request you have mechanics and medics standing by,” Anthony said.

  “Mechanics we can do, 4-7. Our Corpsmen are a little busy right now. Anyone critical?”

  “That’s a negative. All currently stable.”

  “Roger that. Drop stealth half a klik out. We’ll send two Cougars to meet you.”

  “Copy, 1-5. Four-seven out.”

  “Medics are all busy? That’s not good,” Christopher said, shaking his head.

  “Chinese units broke through the Russian Defense Force lines about ten miles north of here. Marines at Rattlesnake held ’em off, but there’s still a bunch of ’em out there,” Nick told him. As the only real Marine in his crew, he had access to the current command reports. He’d read about the battle at Grid-118 just before Gabe knocked him out.

  “Shit. And Rebels and North Korean troops to the South. I’d hardly call this friendly territory.”

  “Gonna have to do. Not like we’re going to make it back to Zulu with our Razor barely running,” Nick said with a sigh. “You wanna talk to the mechanics, get ’em to patch up the engine?”

  “Yeah. I’ll take Bryce—he probably knows these Razors better than the locals. See if I can get someone to re-arm us, too,” Christopher said, nodding.

  “Good man. I’ll see about finding a ride out of here for our Navy pals back there. Gabe, you’re with me. Mary, see what you can do about fixing those busted stealth panels.”

  “I’ll go with. Been in that fucking turret for too long now,” Peter King, one of the unit’s gunners, said as he dropped down out of the turret and stretched his arms. Though he used cabin fever as an excuse, Nick knew why he was playing Mary’s shadow. The men in the unit, Peter especially, had come to see her as kind of their little sister. If anyone even looked at her funny, Nick knew Peter would introduce that unfortunate individual to the back of his M249 SAW. Mary appeared to know it, too—she smiled at Peter and clapped a hand on the big man’s shoulder.

  “Come on, then, Shadow,” she said. “Fair warning, though—you get to lift
all the heavy stuff.”

  “Cougar M-ATVs inbound, boss,” Daniel called from the camera station.

  Nick glanced over at Daniel’s screens and saw the two boxy trucks heading roughly in their direction.

  “Mary, bring us out of stealth mode and fire up the signal lights. Help ’em find us. Pack up your shit, folks. Those not currently assigned to a task should find a rack and get some rest. We’ve got a long haul to Firebase Zulu, and I’d like to be underway as soon as it gets dark again.”

  “You heard the man, kids. Let’s move like we’ve got a purpose,” Christopher bellowed as Bryce followed the Cougars to the steel star barriers wrapped in barbed wire.

  “Hey, you almost sounded convincing there,” Nick whispered to his second-in-command.

  “You like that? That was my Nick Morrow impression,” Christopher whispered back.

  There was no sign up yet, but an American flag hung limply from a pole just inside the base. The flag for the Marine 15th Expeditionary Unit flew below it, or at least most of it did; the bottom left corner was torn and ragged. As the three vehicles rolled through the front gate, Nick caught a quick glimpse of the burned-out shell of an M-1 Abrams tank a few thousand feet to the west.

  The sun was just about to rise, so there was enough light in Camp Rattlesnake for the Razor’s crew to see that the main drag through the base was crowded with bodies laid on blankets on the ground. Some of the bodies were obviously alive, moving—but most weren’t.

  “Shit. They really took a beating, didn’t they?” Michael Riley’s voice floated down from the turret. He was 47 Echo’s other gunner, a Boston native in his mid-thirties. Nick had joked before that Michael looked like a real-life version of the Notre Dame mascot, minus the beard and the alcoholism.

  No one answered, partly because the answer was obvious.

  “Those look like Chucks,” Daniel said, using the vernacular for Marine convicts coded Charlie.

  “Most of ’em, yeah. Couple of real Marines, too. I don’t think anyone got out unscathed,” Nick said.

  “Patching into their net as we speak, boss. According to the reports, they gave as good as they got. Couple of hundred Chinese casualties to their one hundred fifty dead. They’ve called for backup, but my guess is the Chinese’ll mass here first,” Mary reported.

  “Shit. They’ll be wiped out,” Christopher said, shaking his head.

  “Don’t mean to be a dick, gentlemen, but not our concern,” one of the Navy guys on the racks piped up. “We all have a job to do, and they’re doing theirs. We have to do ours.”

  Nick looked back for the source of the voice. It was the jet pilot, Commander Noonan. He’d been shot in the shoulder, but he was by far in the best shape of any of their passengers. He was also, though Nick hated to admit it, the ranking officer in the Razor at the moment.

  “You’ve got a point, sir,” Nick said through gritted teeth. “And we’ll get you back to Enterprise ASAP. It’s our priority objective at the moment.”

  “Good man.”

  Bryce pulled the Razor to a stop, and Nick hopped out through the passenger door without even bothering to look back at Noonan. Gabriel jumped out a few seconds later, jogging to catch up to him.

  “Sooner we get those guys off my truck, the better,” Nick mumbled to Gabriel.

  “No argument here, boss.”

  “I’ll see what I can do to locate a ride for them. These Marines are worse off here than I thought—find whoever’s in charge of triage and see if you can lend a hand,” Nick said.

  “On it.”

  Gabriel jogged off to the medical tent.

  Nick grabbed a passing Charlie convict by the shoulder.

  “Hey, bro. Who’s in charge around here?”

  “Staff Sergeant Lincoln is my CO, sir,” the Charlie said, turning to face him. Nick noticed as the young man turned that he had a bandage over one eye. The bandage was stained red, and Nick doubted there was an actual eyeball under it anymore.

  “Point me to him?” Nick asked.

  The young convict nodded and raised his arm. He pointed to a Marine in full battle dress, sitting with his head in his hands on an oil drum about fifty feet away.

  “Thanks, man. Go get some rest.”

  Nick walked over to the Marine, tapping him on the shoulder. The Marine looked up with a start, then stood and saluted.

  “Sir! I wasn’t sleeping, sir!” Lincoln said.

  “Calm down, pal. You in charge of the Chucks?”

  “Four-two and 4-4 Charlie, sir. What’s left of them.” Lincoln’s face, already hangdog from exhaustion, drooped even further.

  “You guys took a hell of a beating out here. You got anything that’ll still fly?”

  “I…I don’t know, sir. We had a few Cobras in the air, but I don’t know how many came back. There’s a Sea Hawk around here somewhere, too.”

  “I have some high-priority assets to get back to their boat. Want to call someone for me and set that up?”

  “Copy that, sir.”

  Lincoln activated the radio in his ear and had a quick conversation. Nick looked around and saw the tents the Charlie convicts had set up. There were a few men in front of each, stacking up small numbers of weapons—pistols, battered old M-16s and what looked like hunting rifles, mostly.

  “All set up, sir. You’re going to want to talk to Lieutenant Ryder. He’s the Sea Hawk driver. He’ll take your boys to Hansen Air Base and set up a medevac to their boat from there,” Lincoln said.

  “How are you guys for weapons, Sergeant?”

  “Not great, sir. Lot of cast-offs and criminal seizures from the States. About half of my guys went out there with laughable gear. One guy had a machete.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Don’t think I even know how anymore, sir,” Lincoln said, dropping his head back into his hands.

  Nick tried to keep it off his face, but he felt for the guy. He remembered being sent out into the field with guns that didn’t work, but nothing as bad as what Lincoln’s crew had been saddled with. Instead of frowning and swearing like he wanted to, Nick nodded and looked over at the Razor, where he saw Christopher, Bryce and one of the mechanics starting a walk around. He caught Christopher’s eyes, and his second-in-command nodded back at him.

  “See that tall guy with the beard over by my Razor? Go talk to him. He’ll set you up with some better ordinance,” Nick said, waving to Christopher then pointing to Sergeant Lincoln.

  “Seriously, sir?”

  “Yep. Go tell him I said to give you whatever you need.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Sergeant Lincoln slowly trudged over toward the Razor, limping.

  Eyes locked on Christopher’s, Nick held up two fingers, then pointed to himself. Christopher nodded—the message was clear. Keep two cases for us. Twenty-four rifles to either use in combat or trade for something more critical.

  Nick wandered off and found Lieutenant Ryder rather easily. It wasn’t hard to spot the young, affable Navy pilot hanging out by the Sea Hawk, smoking a cigarette and cleaning his M4.

  “You Lieutenant Ryder?” Nick asked.

  “That’s me. What can I do for you, Marine?”

  “I got a few of your Navy buddies—pulled ’em off a beach a couple of hundred miles south of here. They’re stable, but they won’t stay that way without a medevac.”

  “You go through the proper channels? Make an official request, all that shit?” Ryder asked, flicking his cigarette into the dirt in front of him.

  “No, sir.”

  “My kinda guy. Where’re your Navy guys from?”

  “Enterprise, I think.”

  “All right. I’ll get on the horn with her Captain. He’ll cut through the red tape. Have your guys load ’em up on the Sea Hawk—don’t expect authorization to take longer than a couple of minutes.”

  Nick roped some of Lincoln’s Charlies into stretcher duty, and they had the four Navy crewmen loaded into the Sea Hawk in less than five minu
tes. Two minutes after that, the large helicopter lifted off, quickly becoming a dot in the sky. Nick headed back to the Razor, where he found Bryce waist-deep in the engine compartment, flanked by Chris and two Marine mechanics.

  “How we doin’ in there, Bryce?”

  “Peachy,” Bryce’s voice floated from somewhere within the bowels of the Razor’s massive 24-cylinder engine. “Should have her back to speed in an hour or so.”

  Nick knew he could count on that estimate. Before his conviction for five counts of accessory to murder, Bryce had been a world-champion rally truck driver and mechanic. When the young man said an hour, he meant sixty minutes exactly.

  “Fuel?”

  “Solid’s refilled to half. Solar’s charging. Give it a day and we’ll be five by five.”

  “Good man. Chris? Get rid of most of our cargo?”

  “Yeah, minus the two cases I stashed in the Razor. They were sure happy to get ’em. I don’t envy those guys—I remember when we were in their shoes.”

  “Hey, at least they’re not sending ’em out with shovels. I heard one of the Kilo units didn’t get much more than that,” Nick said, growling. “Just convicts, after all, right?”

  “Yeah. Not like they’re real people who want to defend their own lives or anything like that,” Christopher said, banging his fist on the Razor’s armored skin.

  “Sounds like what command would say,” Nick grumbled. “What does the re-arm situation look like?”

  “They can get us up to about fifty percent on rockets, about thirty percent on the 50 cals,” Christopher said. “With Big Red breathing down their necks, I don’t want to take much more out of ’em than that.”

  “Fair enough. Once Bryce has the Razor running and Mary has the stealth back up, get our ammo loaded and rack out. We’ll roll at sundown.”

  “Copy that, boss.”

  Chapter Three

  Stand Your Ground

  “Boss. We got trouble,” Anthony said, lightly shaking Nick’s shoulder.

  Nick stretched and rolled out of the fold-down rack in his Razor. Sergeant Lincoln had offered to set him up with a tent, but Nick preferred to stay with the vehicle—after spending so much time in it recently, he’d come to think of it as home. He looked over at Anthony, who had been a reporter before the war but now ran the group’s communications equipment. The young man’s face was pinched, tight. He was squinting a bit even in the low light of the cabin.