Fort Liberty, Volume Two (7 page)

Gojo holds his gaze, then nods, as if he understands the depth of it now, even if he didn’t before. “Yes, sir.”

“I want to know the minute we have anything, an image, anything.”

“Roger that.”

“And make sure we have a way to talk to Logan. I want an open channel. I want to know what’s going on down there.”

“Sir.”

Voss backs out of the small space, needing to be out of it. He crosses back into the hangar, away from the others. Experience throws it in his face, images of her dead, dying, hurt, because he knows exactly what that looks like. For a moment, it takes his breath, and he crouches down on his ankles, hands between his knees, and bows his head, waiting for it to clear.

Not a comms malfunction, not simply the wrong moment…

It’s visceral. Someone attacked her, ruthlessly, violently, when he didn’t have eyes on her, when he was somewhere else, doing something else. And now he’s stuck here, knife twisting in his gut, blind and unable to help.

Where are you? Why didn’t you tell me you were heading out into the open? Why didn’t you call me when you knew they were coming?

Because they were jamming her signal.

It sparks anger, too hot, too close to rage. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry, brother,” Wyatt says, close enough, but still keeping a respectful distance. “She’s gotta be alive though.”

Voss considers it, focusing his gaze across the dark length of the hangar, as if he can see into the storm beyond the blast doors. “Maybe.”

“She’s worth more alive.”

“Unless it’s a message.”

“Wellll---” Wyatt rubs one hand over his shaved head, pressing his fingers against the back of his neck in thought. “Doesn’t take a big transport ship retrofitted with rockets to make a message out of one woman. For that, they could have snatched her anywhere. It’s not like she’s…”

“Yeah.”

“They knew to jam the locator
we
put on her, and then they intercepted her with three air transports, modified to accommodate weaponry---now pretty much heavy attack ships. That’s…”

Voss waits, but he knows what’s coming.

“There’s a bigger plan,” Wyatt finishes. “And the timing…”

“Niri.”

“Yeah, this bullshit.”

Voss lets out frustrated breath. “Indoctrination.”

“Indoctrination,” Wyatt repeats, as if it denotes a crime. “Whatever the hell that is. It’s what our mystery enemy is desperate to prevent, right? Those guys who keep attacking us? The guys who have already proven they would do anything to stop us? We laid low at Fort Liberty for a while, so maybe there was no opportunity, but now the moment is here, and it’s been rush rush rush since we got the green light. President Wexler wanted Niri here before the storm hit. The doc wanted her on the elevator the second we landed.”

“They knew something.”

“Of course, they did,” Wyatt insists. “Those encrypted SAT images? Someone tried to hide those, and I doubt it was Wexler. It’s the enemy, someone in his administration. Someone within their circle is helping the subversives, and they know that. They just don’t know who it is. They knew something was up, so they sent us out early, but they’re still being played from the inside. This is a trap, and Petra is their hostage. Only reason to take her like this is to get to you. Two hundred cred says they’re heading straight for us, and she’s going to come streaming in on vid any minute, roughed up, and begging us not to shoot them down because she’s on one of those gunships.”

Voss grimaces.
Checkmate.

It makes sense, and it feels probable, a play like this… It’s the hit he wasn’t expecting, leaving him with only two options: compromise BIOSTAT in an attempt to get Petra back, or follow protocol and scatter those transports across red sand on their approach, killing everyone onboard.

He tries not to think of her inside the transport, and does anyway, whatever they’ve done to her, whatever they’re doing…

It’s not a hard decision though maybe it should’ve been.

He nods, draws a breath. “It’s not a suicide run. If they’re coming here, they can’t just talk their way into the hangar, detonate a bomb, kill us all, and stop the program. The facility itself is too far underground, under rock. They’d have to land here, and fight all the way down to get to Niri.”

“Via one elevator,” Wyatt adds, always in sync. “Then another, with a heavily armed monitoring station sitting in between.”

“We put BIOSTAT in lockdown…”

“And all the civilians will be secured in protected areas, behind armored doors, with independent life support.”

“Security guards will still be at risk.”

“Finally,” Wyatt scoffs. “Look at these lazy fucks.”

Voss smiles at that, for what it’s worth, and the sniper nods.

“Okay.” Voss rises from his crouch, considers the blast doors, the position of the aircraft in the bay. “Have the pilots move the skimmers. Park them close to the entrance, up against the wall to provide cover.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gojo, and the station guards, will take position at the monitoring station below ground. Tell Gojo to leave the elevator car at the bottom of the shaft, and manually cut the power to it. No system control over the hangar elevator. I want it offline until we decide to repair it.”

“And up here? It’s just us?”

“And your recruits.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Wyatt drawls. “Because we need the only three idiots who can’t shoot for shit with us.”

“Put one on the SAW.”

Wyatt’s expression sobers. “Sir?”

“Put the SAW on the catwalk above the skimmers, protected by double rows of diamond steel plate. Have the gunner keep the enemy off the elevators while you and I extract Petra from the ship.”

Wyatt frowns at the catwalk above the hangar’s blast doors. “And the ROE? Just, basically, anything that’s not your girlfriend…”

“Kill it.”

Wyatt grins. “Who says we don’t negotiate?”

Voss doesn’t reply, and a moment passes, its meaning is understood, the memory of a dozen times when it was bad, and the potential for this to be worse.

“Red Filter,” Wyatt says it in sing-song, making a mockery of the words. “Ain’t no struggle, nor strife, just pure enlightened souls, desperate to kill each other. You think they’re going to charge us for the damage we’re about to do to their pretty hangar?”

Voss nods, aware that he will undoubtedly be charged, by Wexler’s lawyers, and maybe Rhys Corp’s too, because twenty-two years of service is not enough to cover this bill. Risking BIOSTAT, and all its secrets, for a non-citizen, a smuggler, no less… All those presidential claps on the back won’t be worth shit, as was always the case, and he’ll be Earthbound within two months, maybe even cut loose.

Wyatt’s smile disappears, suddenly realizing where the joke has gone. “Hey, fuck them! How many years we’ve been risking our asses to protect their shit Earthbound? How many people have we lost? How many of us actually get to retire, actually see any of what they’ve offered us, med care and shit? How much money do they save when one of us dies?”

Voss doesn’t reply, knowing there are no good answers for that.

Wyatt jabs his finger toward the elevator in disgust. “How many boot kids did I repeat their promises to? How many of them died believing it? Now we can’t risk anything of theirs to save a civilian we painted a target on, for
their
sakes, in order to protect this business? Fuck them, sir. Dealing with shitheads is
our
business. We do what we do.”

Voss hears this and understands it for what it is, a brother’s unwavering support, pure got-your-back, in the face of whatever odds. “First Sergeant.”

“Sir.” Wyatt nods, expression still tight. He walks past Voss, heading toward the parked aircraft to kick his three recruits awake. “Wake up, pukes! It’s your lucky day. We’re going to hang one of you from the motherfucking rafters with a light machine gun. Excited? I know I am!”

Voss returns his gaze to the blast doors, allowing an image of that transport fighting the storm to take hold, merge possibility into reality.

A civilian
we
painted a target on?

No… a civilian
I
painted a target on.

Bring them up the canyon, Petra. I’m here. And I’m waiting.

 

Petra swallows, only it’s hard to, and what doesn’t hurt feels numb. Voices snap back and forth in the murk, anxious words, though she can’t quite hear them. And it wouldn’t matter now if she could.

The meds are doing what they do, keeping her awake, keeping the mind going, though it blurs. But they’re doing nothing for the chill, for the shakes that make her teeth chatter, or for the heaviness pressing down on her chest, making each breath harder than the last.

It’s impossible to keep the shadows at bay, and what comes is what comes, memories that stream out of order, all the details crystalline.

Some are so random, so meaningless that it’s a miracle they were remembered at all, the flick of a silk fan, the haze of a purple sky, tiny Ada, with straight cut bangs, a big smile and a soft little nose, a whisper of breath in her ear.
I love you, mama.

Tears burn, forming that hot blur that goes nowhere, causing that catch in her chest, so tight she can’t breathe. She rasps, but no sound follows, only emptiness, raw and agonizing, a vessel with nothing left.

Ada gone for years now. Clara…

Got to get control over this, wild thing. No time for being what you’re not, which is dumb, or dead. Time to put your faith in something. Time to do what’s left to do, because we both know you got the strength. Got to warn Voss, or he’s going to die. Voss is going to die.

Voss.

Still alive, still unhurt…

And now it’s those memories that are the clearest, that cool gaze of his, and the hint of his smile when she’s saying things she didn’t mean to, drinking vodka with the stars taking up the view, and no roles, or ranks, between them… the power of two in whatever equation keeps worlds spinning in chaos, with nothing lasting but what gets saved in the heart.

Jared…

Kazak isn’t beside her anymore, though she can hear his voice somewhere close by, talking to one of his men, his tone sharper, and clearer than it was a moment ago, though she still can’t hear every word. “---us there.”

“Extract transports---storm delay---”

“No. Unacceptable.”

“---flying blind.”

The old transport dips, rolling a bit, the pilot struggling to keep the wings level. It drops, and the braking jets fire, toppling bags from the racks, flinging storage compartments open. Supplies sluice from the shelf above, cascading down to hit the deck. Petra flinches, unable to move as a spray of thin silver welding rods falls loose around her.

A pair of gloves drop on her lap.

A helmet bounces across the floor.

In the main hold, heavy gas tanks roll and clank together, equipment escaping from tie-downs. Men curse, yell at each other. The Earthbounders shuffle around, focused on securing things she can’t see.

A small item nudges against her side, and she looks down, squinting to focus. The round top of a plastic container catches the light, a jar with a familiar label, a specific product used by her techs.

Welding anti-spatter.

Grease.

Only a criminal would find in luck in such.

She glances at her wrist locked tight in the restraint, fingers dangling.

Do what’s got to be done.

Twisting against the pain, she reaches down and grabs for the jar. It tries to slip out of reach, but she hooks it into her grasp, and slides it close. She’s breathing too hard, as if it’s a ton she’s lifted.

The ceiling blurs.

But she’s got a natural way with thievery, and turning a lid, one-handed in the dark, is a basic skill. The jar opens, lid dropping off into wherever. She runs her fingers into the grease, feeling it melt thickly along her fingers and slide up under her nails.

It takes a second to rub a slippery gob of it along her secured wrist, spreading it under the restraint, buttering the skin, and the plastic, and the pipe. Her hand is small, wrist delicate, and tucking the thumb along the palm makes it slide right out of the restraint. Nothing to it.

She sucks another breath and pushes it back in, keeping the look that she’s still secured there, though her hand can be slipped out at any time.

It’s well done, though what odds it improves are uncertain. Maybe it changes nothing because moving seems beyond comprehension, and escape would be noticed anyway. But still, it’s a stroke of luck, and a good smuggler never questions that luck will be needed.

This wouldn’t be the first time, after all, someone’s made the mistake of thinking she was too dead to fight back.