Hard Drop (6 page)

He stepped out of his cover grudgingly and broke into a brisk run towards the truck, rifle braced against his shoulder, finger ready on the trigger. He ran in a crouch, cutting diagonally across the space, trying to minimize his exposure as he crossed the open road. He approached the near side of the truck at a trot and turned the corner, swinging his rifle quickly across the hood.
 

He was ten paces away when he noticed the cigarette. It had burned all the way down to the filter, the ash building into a thin, grey, unbroken cylinder. It rested between the lifeless fingers of the truck’s front passenger, stretched out low in his seat. His eyes were wide open and bloodshot, but it was the ragged bullet hole through his throat that caught Tyco’s eye. The wound was fresh, blood still trickling out of it and down his uniform.
 

“Christ.” Tyco said out loud, pushing in to examine the corpse for some form of identification. Without the luxury of a proper briefing, he was eager to know who exactly they were dealing with here.

“Put the gun down.” The voice was jarring and rough, but oddly quiet, as if the speaker had lost his voice days before and was only just beginning to recover.
 

Tyco looked up to see the driver, bloodied and unsteady on his feet, one hand pressed against an ugly wound in his side, staring at him murderously across the hood of the tank. The man held a pistol in one shaking hand and was pointing it directly at him. Tyco lowered his rifle slowly, holding up one hand in surrender.
 

“I should shoot you where you stand.” The driver growled. Tyco stared back at him, unflinching. It was always harder to shoot a man who met your eyes and would not look away. “You’re meddlers, all of you. Messing where you don’t belong.”

“I’m just a man.” Tyco said. “Same as you.”

“Just a man?” The driver sneered, then chuckled, then laughed outright. “Maybe you are.” He leaned against the truck, extending his pistol arm across the hood. The gun jerked unsteadily in his hand. “But we don’t take any chances here.” Tyco tensed, ready to hurl himself to the ground even as the driver’s finger coiled.

The shot sounded, impossibly loud, echoing off the surrounding hills like a clap of thunder. And Tyco was caught flat-footed, standing unmoving and open-mouthed as the man's head melted away and his body toppled onto the truck hood. It landed with a sickening gurgling sound before falling heavily to the ground at Tyco's feet.

“How you doin’, Cap?” The comm crackled.
 

Tyco sighed, recognizing the voice immediately. It was just like Chip to make a grand entrance. “Glad you brought your smokes, buddy.” He said, feeling his heart racing in his chest. “What happened to radio silence?”

“Already blown.” The sniper’s response was lackadaisical, almost sing-song.
 

“Why?” Tyco asked, trying not to smile. “’Cause you gutted the co-pilot?”

But Chip wasn’t gloating. “Negative. Check the other side.”

Tyco stepped cautiously around the hood of the vehicle, unsure what to expect. He turned quickly, swinging the gun in a wide arc, covering the open field and the road beyond.
 

He saw almost immediately that it wasn’t needed: there, just outside the thin strip of vegetation, was an opened jump pod, its nose driven a few inches into the brittle rock. Not five steps away was a trooper, lying dead in a crumpled heap, submachine gun still resting in his hand.
 

Tyco sighed, letting his gun fall. He walked over to the corpse, put a hand to its shoulder and turned it carefully onto its back. Blank, empty eyes met his, and his heart sank. It was one of his. He dropped to one knee and reached around the dead man's neck, removing his thin metal dog tags.
 

“Who is it?” Chip asked over the radio, and then added, hopefully: “Ringo?”
 

“Negative.” Tyco responded. “Adamson.” He slotted the tags in the side pocket of his camouflage pants, carefully buttoning down the flap to hold them in place. There was a calm, well-practiced ritual air to his movements, and he looked away from the body with sadness.
 

“Adamson…” Chip said, his voice distant as if trying to remember the name. “I liked him.” He decided, at last.

“Beautiful.” Tyco tapped back, shaking his head.
 

“No really, I did – “ But Tyco wasn’t listening any more. Movement in the undergrowth across the highway had caught his eye.
 

“Chip, far side of the road, you see anything?” He tapped quickly.
 

“Negative. Growth’s too dense.”
 

“I’ll check it out. Cover me.” Tyco advanced towards the swaying shrub, using the crashed pod for cover.

The brush moved back and forth quickly, with increasing urgency. Whatever or whoever was behind it, they were coming in a hurry. Judging by the ferocity of the advance, it was more than one man. Possibly several.
 

“I’ve got a shot.” Chip said, his eagerness evident even through the radio.
 

“Hold.” Tyco answered, ducking low as the rustling approached. He brought the rifle to bear, watching the shaking grass intently.

Something flashed in the sun, catching Tyco’s eye as it scythed through the brush, slicing the yellowed stalks jaggedly in half. Tyco sighed in recognition, released the trigger, and stood slowly. A thin, knowing smile broke across his face.
 

“Cap - ?” Chip asked on the comm., worried and questioning.

“Relax Chip.” Tyco sighed into the receiver. “It’s just Ringo.”
 

Right on cue, Ringo emerged into the bright sunlight, still slashing ferociously at the grass in front of him, and stepped out onto the road. “Ghost, too.” He said, and nodded at the silent man behind him. “We met up on the way.” He placed his blade back into its sheath and nodded at the body behind Tyco. “Who’s that?” He asked, more curious than concerned.

“Adamson.” Tyco said, turning away to look up and down the road. It was too much to hope that Chip’s shots had gone unnoticed, but so far there was no sign of the locals.

“Poor fucker.” Ringo said, and headed for the corpse. “What ammo he bring?”
 

Tyco shook his head. He counted himself as a hardened veteran, but he still found Ringo’s unquestioning selfishness disconcerting. “Didn’t check.” He turned and nodded at Ghost, who was mopping his sweating brow in the dry heat. “Glad to see you.”

“More than you know.” Ghost answered, quietly, glancing towards Ringo. “Is he always like that?”

Tyco chuckled. “You never had the pleasure before?”

Ghost shook his head, still staring at Ringo incredulously.

“Don’t worry.” Tyco said, smiling thinly. “He gets worse.”
 

“We still on radio silence?” Ringo knelt and rifled through Adamson’s pockets with the calm efficiency of a battlefield looter.
 

Tyco shrugged. “In theory.”
 

Ringo rolled his eyes and punched his comm. “Who’s out there? Hog?”

No answer came. Not even a click of acknowledgment. Ringo glanced at Tyco, confused. “Who were you talking to, Cap - ?”

“Let’s play a game….” Chip’s voice was only made more creepy by the static breaking over the comm.

Ringo jumped out of his skin.
 

“Chip.” Tyco grinned, by way of explanation.
 

“Creepy motherfucker…”Ringo said, shaking his head.
 

Tyco grinned even wider. “Your comm’s live.”
 

“Thaaaanks Sweetheart.” Chip groaned over the radio. His tone, now warm and friendly, was even more disconcerting than before.
 

Ringo shuddered as he rose, efficiently pocketing the ammunition he’d taken from Adamson’s body and strapping his grenade belt around his chest. He put one hand to his comm, trying to come up with a response. He gave up and shook his head instead.
 

“Poke didn’t make it either.” Ghost said quietly, nodding towards Adamson as if mentally linking their fates.

“I saw.” Tyco nodded.
 

Ringo shrugged easily, adjusting the machete strap around his waist to make room for the grenades. “Name like ‘Poke’, what’d you expect?”

Tyco shook his head and tapped in again. “Chip, you coming down or covering us from up there?”
 

Static sounded briefly, followed closely by a clipped – “I’m good from here, Cap.”
 

“Thank God.” Ringo sighed.
 

“Comm.” Tyco tried to hide his grin.
 

Ringo stared down at his unit, tapping in and out quickly desperately checking to make sure he was clear. He stopped short and stared from Tyco to Ghost, reading the amusement on their faces as he slowly got the joke.

“Fuck you.” He said, angrily at first, but the twitch of his lips betrayed him, and he grinned. “I’ll get you for that.”
 

Tyco smiled and tipped his helmet as he brushed past. “Let’s move!” He called, tapping in as he stepped quickly across the road and made for the cover on the other side. “Next mark is 10-point-3 clicks Northeast.”
 

Two quick clicks from Chip answered him, and the radio fell silent again.
 

Tyco and Ghost set off down the road. Ringo hung back, eyeing the truck.
 

“Hey, boss,” He asked. “What about the wheels - ?”

A loud crack sounded from the hillside, and something whistled through the air, slamming through the truck’s hood. A split second later, flames emerged from its hood, spreading quickly over the mud-caked canvas cover.
 

Ringo stared up at the hillside, disbelieving. “Oh, come on - !”
 

Tyco turned back to the truck to see the flames licking around its engine. Ringo stood rooted to the spot, dangerously close to the vehicle. Tyco's face fell as the fire engulfed the truck.
 

“Ringo - !” He barely raised his voice, but the urgency was clear in his tone.
 

Ringo whirled towards him, then glanced back at the truck. His face fell immediately, realizing the imminent danger. He let out a strangled roar and dove for the roadside–
 

Even as the engine exploded behind him, hurling glass and metal high into the sky. Ringo was flung clear into the underbrush, thudding heavily as he landed and skidding sideways through the growth. He rolled to a hard stop in the tall, dry grass.
 

“Cap.” Chip tapped in. “Can I finish him?”
 

“Chip!” Tyco sighed, wearily.
 

“Act of mercy, I swear!“

“Jesus H Christ - !” Ringo groaned from the brush. He crawled to his knees, then raised himself quickly to full height, angrily throwing back his head. “That fucking traitor!”
 

“Ringo, you ok?” Tyco called quietly as he rushed towards him.
 

“You better stay up there forever.” Ringo growled into his comm. “’Cause if you come down here, I swear – .“

“That’s it, Ringo.” Chip’s smirk was audible. “Use your words.”
 

“Shut up.” Tyco broke through. “Both of you.” He quietly picked a twisted piece of metal as long as a little finger out of Ringo's uniform and held it up to the light. "And Ringo?"
 

The soldier turned to look at the shrapnel between Tyco's fingers. He raised his eyebrows in appreciation of its length.
 

"Next time I say we're moving out, you fall in quick, got it?"
 

"Yes sir." Ringo nodded quietly.
 

"Then let's go." Tyco said, turning away quickly and dropping the shard of metal in the middle of the road.

FOUR: RENDEZVOUS

The valley became greener as they descended. Trees began to rise in small clusters from the hillside, slowly growing into small forests. The creek became a stream, then a small river. And the road, if anything, became worse. And still, for several long, hot miles, there was no sign of the locals
 

Tyco, Ghost, and Ringo walked in focused silence, each man checking his display intermittently. They kept to the woods, with Chip trailing at a zealously guarded distance. The silence was eerie; the lack of hostile response only underscored the near-total lack of friendly contacts. With the unit at full strength, they would have seen enemy patrols by now, but their absence gave some indication of how few pods had made it safely to the planet surface. The team moved methodically and warily through the forest, old hands at the game of combat hide-and-seek which strategic insertion demanded. Chip, it seemed, reveled in his isolation, tapping in only when Tyco demanded it. Ringo, meanwhile, could have cared less about the friendly company; his machete bounced ominously against his side, and he kept his eyes peeled for likely future victims.
 

But Tyco was worried, though he tried not to show it: the improbable odds of his mission were looking worse with each passing second of radio silence. The beacon blinking on his display drew them ever farther into valley, towards the outskirts of civilization below. Once into the city, it would be much harder to slip by undetected. Four guns would not be nearly enough then, with or without armor, and he knew it. That was why he kept up his constant vigil, monitoring his rifle display hopefully and tapping in over the comm at regular, frequent intervals. Two clicks in and out, followed by expectant silence, repeated as often as he dared without broadcasting his position.
 

His rifle display beeped quietly, and Tyco glanced at it nervously. The glowing white navigation ring told him immediately why it had notified him: based on the their coordinates, they had just entered the intended pod landing zone. At least a dozen pod markers should have shown up on the scanner, and a chorus of clicks should have sounded in answer on the comm. But there was nothing there, nothing but silence all around.

Tyco could feel Ringo’s eyes on him each time he checked, waiting, expectant, and increasingly anxious. Finally, after stopping at the top of a ridge to adjust their course again, he caught Ringo staring back at him, quiet and suspicious, twirling his machete absentmindedly. Ringo looked away slowly, caught the machete cleanly by its blade and replaced it in its holster.