Supercritical Page 5

  “A little over eighteen months now. Before that, I was a convict serving five life sentences,” Nick said.

  “Yeah, I saw that in your file here. Conviction was overturned. Corrupt judge, wasn’t it? The one who got indicted in Los Angeles last year?”

  “Yeah. That’s the one. Hear he’s out here serving in a convict unit now. After my release, I joined the Marines and took command of my unit.”

  “And that’s called 47 Echo, am I right?”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “And what about you, soldier? What did you do to get into the convict Marines?” Keane said, looking over at Mary, who was next to him on the long bench seat in the back of the Cougar.

  “Actually, I’m not in the Convict Marines. Air Force convict unit. 47 Echo has elements from Air Force, Army and Marine units,” Mary said. “And it was hacking. Computers.”

  “So you’re not a combat veteran, then?” Keane said, making some more notes on his tablet.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’ve fired my share of rounds out here. We all have.”

  “Hmm. Only female in the unit?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Interesting. That’s an angle I’m going to have to look into,” Keane said, winking at Mary.

  Nick felt Peter shift on the bench next to him and placed a hand lightly on the young man’s shoulder. Peter nodded, but he didn’t look happy.

  “Here we are, gentlemen and lady. We’re relieving 82 Kilo for an eight-hour shift. That’s them now,” Captain Chandler said, pointing to a crew of five men in convict BDUs standing next to a 4x4 Cougar. Nick doubted they were actually Army Kilo convicts. First, they looked well fed and rested. Second, Kilo units guarding a road from nowhere was about as silly as Echo units doing the same. They were both front-line, cannon-fodder units.

  More likely, Nick thought, these guys were Army Foxtrot wearing Kilo insignia. Minor felons who got light duty, administrative stuff. They’d probably be home in six months to a year if they survived and, more importantly, few of them were behavior problems. Of course they’re model convicts, Nick thought, suppressing an amused grin. Couldn’t have us rolling up on a fight or a drug deal.

  Before the reporter and his cameraman were out of the Cougar, the “Kilo” unit had saddled up and headed off down the road, back to Camp Justice. That left Nick, his unit, the two journalists and the grinning Captain from Public Affairs.

  “Now, Mr. Keane, I do want you to get the best story possible, but the men do have an important duty to perform,” Chandler started.

  Nick bit off a sarcastic laugh.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to talk to them one at a time, if that’s all right,” Chandler finished.

  “Yeah, I think we can do that. Norman, you want to get your rig set up? We’ll start with you, Lieutenant, if you don’t mind,” Keane said, nodding at Nick.

  “Right. Kids, you know the drill. Set up a checkpoint and keep your eyes open for anything moving. Bryce, you’re on the truck. Daniel, high cover. Mary, Pete, close support.”

  Nick’s people moved quickly, Bryce taking the now-vacated driver’s seat of the Cougar and activating the 40mm grenade launcher on top. Daniel headed up a nearby ridge with the new sniper rifle he’d just been given that morning, an XM2010 (in Daniel’s words, a “piece of hammered shit”). Mary and Peter took up positions on either side of the empty two-lane road, holding their weapons at the ready.

  “Your guys certainly hustle, Lieutenant,” Keane said as his cameraman gave him the thumbs-up from behind his tiny digital camera.

  “Moving slow isn’t really an option out here.”

  “No, I guess it isn’t. Now, just make sure to talk in the general direction of the camera. Its mic is pretty good, but it’s directional. Norman will signal us if you go off-sound, and I might stop you and have you repeat yourself if that happens. Good?”

  “Five by five.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means, Lieutenant.”

  “Sorry, sir. It means we’re good to go.”

  “Uh, okay. Let’s get started, then. First, could you state your name and rank?” Keane’s face, open and grinning on the truck ride over, suddenly morphed into a mask of passive concern. It was a look Nick had seen on newscasters back home, and as he responded, he wondered if they all practiced it in the mirror.

  “Sure. First Lieutenant Nicholas Alexander Morrow, U.S. Marine Corps.”

  “Excellent. And what is it you do out here, Lieutenant Morrow? What’s your job description?”

  “I’m in command of 47 Echo SRF, a ten-man Marine convict unit.”

  “Mechoes, right? That’s the correct slang term?”

  “Yeah, that’s what they call us.”

  “And what about that SRF? What does that mean?” Keane nodded theatrically, another move Nick wondered if he’d practiced in the mirror. Yes, I hear you, that’s very interesting.

  “It means Special Reaction Force. Basically, it denotes us as a Special Forces convict unit—we handle specialized missions, a lot of them classified, so I can’t go into specific mission profiles.”

  “I understand, Lieutenant. Now, Special Forces. I wasn’t aware that there were Special Forces convict units.”

  Here comes the first lie. The briefing Chandler had sent him was specific on this point, so he knew exactly what he was supposed to say, and he said it word-for-word how he’d read it. “There are currently twelve. Six Marine, five Army and one Air Force. As the COs—that’s commanding officers—are very involved with their units, they often see talented individuals and put them in a position where they can do the most good,” Nick said, keeping his voice even.

  There was more than one lie in that prepared answer. First, 47 Echo was the only convict Special Forces unit. They were still considered experimental, even though they’d had several mission successes and hadn’t been killed yet. Also, with a few exceptions, COs weren’t very involved with their units—they mostly sent them out to do the fighting and kept track of the deaths. Most of the COs were real Marines or Army officers under disciplinary action. A tour commanding convict units was their sentence for their crimes.

  Keane asked a few more questions, all of which Chandler and his staff had prepared answers for. The interview only lasted for about ten minutes, and Nick was glad when it was over. Bryce was next up, so Nick had Mary take his place in the Cougar, then went up to join Peter on the side of the road.

  “He buy the Captain’s line o’ bullshit?” Peter whispered as Nick walked up.

  “Yeah, seemed to. What’ve you got there?” Nick asked, nodding to the weapon slung across the large man’s chest.

  “This little thing? They’re calling it the IAR. Apparently, the M249 SAWs me and Mike have been using were replaced years ago. This is what they give the real Marines for squad automatic weapons.”

  “How do you like it?”

  “Well, the lighter weight’s nice. Ammo capacity is, like, half of what my SAW has. Probably won’t get a chance to fire it, though. That’d be the acid test.”

  Nick patted the M4 slung across his own chest.

  “Oh, you’d better believe we’re stealing these fucking things, Pete. You’ll get a chance to fire it once we’re off this detail,” he whispered, grinning.

  “That’s my boy,” Peter said with a laugh.

  “Hey, I figure they owe us. Call it a shift differential. Special duty pay. Whatever.”

  “Chris is starting to rub off on you, boss. Stealin’ shit, talking all nice to reporters…next thing you know, you’ll be growing a beard and scamming smokes off Russians.”

  “Nah. Beards grow in all patchy on me.”

  Nick’s radio beeped once in his ear, the signal that someone was trying to raise him on Channel 1-9 Victor, a low-frequency Special Forces channel. Chandler wouldn’t use it—probably didn’t even know about it.

  “Go for Morrow,” Nick said, toggling the radio on his vest.

  “Hey, boss. Daniel
. You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve got movement on my scope. Vehicle, indeterminate right now. Probably about two miles down the road, heading this way.”

  “Copy that. Mary, you got your ears on?” Nick said.

  “Reading, boss.”

  “Did you copy Daniel’s message?”

  “I did. Bringing the Cougar’s cameras up now. On full zoom, I’m just seeing a moving block.”

  “What about UAVs? We got any in the area?”

  “Negative. Looks like this Cougar’s got a Nighthawk, though. Want me to launch it?”

  Nick knew he should check with Captain Chandler. After all, the Public Affairs officer did outrank him, even if he was a desk jockey. Something about his read on the man, though—his constant smiling, his laid-back nature—made Nick think the Captain had no experience reading a battlefield situation. Besides, the Nighthawk was small and almost silent. Chances were, Chandler wouldn’t even notice if it launched.

  “That’s affirmative, Mary.”

  Nick saw the small, flexible aircraft launch from the top of the Cougar seconds later. It was little more than a camera with wings, sort of a radio-controlled hobby plane turned UAV. Its small size and flexible carbon-fiber construction made it tough to shoot down, and the advance intel it could send back had saved Nick and his people more than once.

  “Receiving telemetry now. TX-49 Heavy Assault Vehicle. Russian,” Mary said.

  “Friendly? Or Renegade?”

  “Got some Renegade markings. And it looks like they’re trying to target in on the Nighthawk.”

  “Shit. Open up the door and yell at Captain Chandler. Let him know what’s up, and get the reporters back in the vehicle. Pete, get low. You’re about to get the chance to test that thing out.”

  Nick could see the vehicle on the horizon now, and it was moving fast. They were tough vehicles, the Russian military’s equivalent to the Razor assault vehicles, which meant they were heavily armed and armored. Its top-mounted 7.62mm coaxial machine guns suddenly opened up, firing into the air, probably trying to shoot down the Nighthawk. Nick slid down into a small depression in the shoulder on the right side of the road, and Peter took up a similar position on the left side of the road. The interview, the lying, had left a bad taste in his mouth—but this, a combat situation, made Nick comfortable again. He tried not to think about how fucked-up that was.

  “Boss, this is Bryce. Civilians and Captain Chandler are in the truck,” Nick’s radio buzzed.

  “Copy that. Fall back behind the hill and stay put. Might need you to rock out and hit this guy with the 40mm,” Nick said.

  “Roger.”

  “Got him on scopes, boss. He’s hauling ass. Be at your position in maybe forty-five seconds,” Daniel said.

  “I see him. Pete, they give you C4 in that nice new vest?”

  “Already setting it up, boss.”

  “Good. Me too. Slide it dead-center, then get clear. We’ll see if we can’t crack this big bitch,” Nick said, slamming a detonator into the two blocks of C4 plastic explosive from his vest. He tossed the blocks into the center of the road and, three seconds later, saw Peter do the same. Both men crawled away from the road in opposite directions, staying as low as possible.

  Nick crouched behind a small tree and looked back out at the road. He saw the large TX-49 was almost over the charges. He toggled his radio.

  “Pete, light it up,” he said, flipping the switch on his own detonator remote as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

  He heard and saw the C4 go up under the HAV, was close enough to feel the heat from the explosion on his face. One blast took out the vehicle’s front axle, and the other blew a rather large hole in the center of its undercarriage.

  “Got a top hatch opening up. I got him,” Daniel radioed.

  The hatch was only open a few inches before Nick heard the shot. Almost instantly, the hatch slammed shut again.

  “Got him. That’s one down.”

  “Nice shooting, Daniel. Pete, I’m moving around to the back door.”

  Nick’s adrenaline was flowing freely now, his head on a swivel, his legs feeling solid and powerful under him. The nervousness and disapproval of talking to Keane had left him—he was in flow state now.

  “Meet you there.”

  Peter must have been closer to the HAV than Nick, because before he made it to the vehicle, he heard automatic weapons fire. It lasted only a few seconds but Nick stayed still, crouched low, his M4 in front of him.

  “Clear, Nick. New gun…eh, it’s okay,” Peter radioed. He sounded calm, almost bored.

  “How many?” Nick asked as he crept toward the TX-49’s now-open rear hatch.

  “Four. I’m in the HAV, so don’t shoot me or anything,” Peter said.

  Nick poked his head into the vehicle and saw that Peter was, in fact, inside. He was also the only one standing. Two Renegade Russian soldiers were half-out of the back hatch, bleeding on the cold concrete. Nick counted two more inside—one crumpled on the floor near the hatch, the other in a heap behind the driver’s seat.

  “Daniel nailed that motherfucker right in the brainpan,” Peter said, nodding at the one behind the driver’s seat.

  “Pull their computers, any other intel you can find,” Nick ordered.

  “Right on.”

  “May not have time for that, boss,” Mary radioed. “The Nighthawk’s still up, and it’s about five miles down the road now. We have fifteen more vehicles, all heavy Russian Armor, heading this way.”

  Chapter Seven

  Massacred Millions

  As the Cougar sped back to Camp Justice, Nick saw the squadron of A-10 Warthogs—tank killers—fly over them to meet the incoming Russian Renegade armor. The Air Force planes would mop them up without a problem, Nick knew. He’d seen them in action before.

  Shortly after he’d called in the air strike, all of the radio frequencies had gone crazy. It seemed like everyone in Justice had suddenly jumped on the radio and started shouting orders. It all jumbled together in a frantic, unintelligible mess.

  Captain Chandler shut the Cougar’s radio off after a few minutes.

  “I’m sure we’ll find out what’s going on when we get back to base,” he said, turning around in the passenger seat and trying to force a smile. It didn’t quite work, and his face contorted into a weird grimace instead.

  “Bryce? How long?” Nick asked.

  “Two minutes. Got the hammer down,” Bryce said from the driver’s seat.

  “Good man.”

  No one spoke for a long moment. When the silence was broken, it was from a sound Nick hadn’t heard in quite a while: a ringing cell phone.

  “Oh. Uh, sorry. That’s me,” the cameraman, Norman, said sheepishly.

  “You were supposed to check that in back at Justice,” Chandler said.

  “Oh. Uh, no one told me,” Norman said, pulling the phone out of his jacket and answering it. “Hello?”

  The interior of the truck was almost silent, but Nick couldn’t make out the other end of Norman’s conversation. All he heard was muffled buzzing, the vague sound of a human voice on the other end of the line. Still, he knew it was bad news by the way Norman’s face suddenly froze.

  “No…no, I’m on assignment. Left New York two days ago,” the cameraman finally rasped out.

  Puzzled looks bounced around the inside of the truck. Even Keane looked confused.

  “Hey, Norm. Who is that, pal?” Keane asked.

  Norman must have heard the question. It was too quiet in the truck for him not to, but he showed no reaction. After a few long seconds, he finally spoke again in a shallow, croaking voice.

  “Look, I’ll call you back.”

  Norman didn’t hang up the phone. He just let it drop out of his hand. Every pair of eyes in the back of the truck followed the phone as it bounced off the steel deck and slid under the bench seat.

  “Norman? What is it, man?” Keane said.

  Norman again said nothing. He didn’t
even move—he was frozen in place.

  “Shock,” Mary said.

  Nick nodded. They’d both seen it plenty of times out on the battlefield.

  “Norman!” Daniel yelled. “Hey!”

  Daniel grabbed the cameraman’s shoulder and shook him none too lightly.

  Norman just blinked and turned his head to the attractive young man.

  “What?” he croaked.

  “What is it, brother? What happened?”

  He blinked a few more times. His mouth moved, but nothing but shallow wheezing sounds came out. Nick was about ready to slap the cameraman when he finally spoke.

  “New York!” Norman yelled, making everyone in the truck flinch involuntarily. “New York is gone! Fucking Chinks destroyed New York!”

  * * *

  Nick hopped out of the truck’s rear hatch before Bryce even shut off the engine. The rest of his unit followed, Bryce jogging slightly to catch up.

  Captain Chandler yelled after them.

  “Lieutenant!”

  Nick paused for a second and turned back to the Public Affairs officer.

  “What…what do we do, Lieutenant?”

  Nick had been ready to yell at the Captain, to tell him he had work to do and to leave his people the fuck alone, that the interview was over. Chandler’s face, though—a lost, confused, panicked look, like he was just holding himself together—made Nick feel intensely sorry for the man.

  “Secure your reporters, sir. Get them back to C2. My people and I are going to try to get some information. We’ll update you if we can.”

  “Right. Right,” Chandler said, nodding almost theatrically. His features stabilized just a bit, and he helped Keane pull Norman out of the truck.

  Nick waved his hand forward, indicating that his people should follow him. They fell into step behind him, Daniel just to his left. He walked fast, trying to shut off the babbling stream of thoughts in his head. It was worse than the radio had been before Chandler shut it off. He was sure the last time he’d talked to his older brother, he’d mentioned that his bosses at the Department of Homeland Security were sending him to New York City.