Had the bio bods been on foot, the next three hours of travel would have been exhausting, as Santana and half his platoon fought their way through vegetation so thick that whichever T-2 was in the lead had to use his or her energy cannon to clear a path. And on one occasion, the cyborgs were forced to ford a river so deep that the bio bods had to stand up straight in order to keep their heads above water. So thanks to the cyborgs, the bio bods were able to not only conserve their energy, but enjoy moments like the one when the legionnaires marched through a cathedral-like open space where shafts of dusty sunlight fed pools of gold, and jewel-like insects fl?itted through the air. But such moments were all too rare as the temperature increased, the bio bods’ hot, sweaty uniforms began to chafe, and time seemed to slow.
Finally, as darkness began to fall, the second squad found itself within fi?ve miles of Sergeant Gomez. Santana was tempted to proceed, confi?dent that the T-2s could fi?nd their way through the dead of night if necessary, but DeCosta refused, insisting that each group camp and create its own defensive perimeter. That was stupid to Santana’s way of thinking, since a unifi?ed platoon could mount a better defense than two isolated squads, but it was not for him to decide.
So the platoon leader chose a rise, where attackers if any would be forced to advance uphill, and ordered the cyborgs to clear a 360-degree free-fi?re zone. Though far from happy about it, the bio bods dug defensive positions before they sat down to eat. Then, once the T-2s were fi?nished constructing a barrier made out of fallen logs and sharpened stakes, it was time to settle in for the night. A scary business for any bio bod not accompanied by four battleready war forms. Especially given the strange sounds and continual rustlings that issued from the jungle. The hours of darkness were divided into four two-hour watches, and Santana had just completed his shift when DeCosta spoke over the command push. “This is Zebra Six. . . . Do you read me? Over.”
The major sounded strange, or so it seemed to Santana, although the offi?cer knew he might be mistaken. “This is Alpha Six. . . . I read you. Over.”
“How are things at your location? Over?”
Santana frowned. The answer was obvious, or should have been, given the fact that DeCosta could access the ITC. It was as if the other offi?cer was simply nervous and wanted to chat. “No problems so far, sir,” the platoon leader answered. “What’s the situation there?”
“We lost Frayley,” DeCosta replied harshly. “She went outside the perimeter to take a leak, fi?red three shots, and was gone by the time her T-2 arrived on the scene. Smith saw more than a dozen heat signatures but withheld fi?re out of fear of hitting her. Over.”
Santana wasn’t wearing his helmet at that point, so he hadn’t seen Frayley’s name and status pop up on the ITC, but he remembered the legionnaire well. A fresh-faced young woman with reddish hair and a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. One of the few team members with a clean record, who, if rumors were correct, had volunteered in order to be with Sergeant Jan Obama.
“Damn,” Santana said sadly. “How is Bravo Two-Six taking the news? Over.”
“Obama went nuts, if that’s what you mean,” DeCosta answered clinically. “We had to restrain her. Over.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence, as if DeCosta was hoping that Santana would make sense of the incident somehow and thereby make him feel better. But the cavalry offi?cer didn’t have anything to say, other than it was stupid to pee outside the perimeter. A lesson Frayley learned the hard way. Eventually, when it was clear that the conversation was over, DeCosta broke the contact.
“Zebra Six, out.”
It was diffi?cult to sleep after that, but Santana fi?nally managed an hour or so and woke just before dawn, when standing orders required that all units serving in the fi?eld stand to arms. It was a tradition that went back hundreds of years and was based on the fact that predawn attacks were and always would be common.
But no attack was forthcoming, which left the second squad free to brew hot drinks and eat their MSMREs before taking fi?fteen minutes to erase the more obvious signs of their presence. Then it was up and off, as the legionnaires made their way through a long, narrow gorge before climbing up over a thinly forested ridge and descending into the jungle below. And that was where Sergeant Maria Gomez and the fi?rst squad were waiting for them. There were the usual catcalls, insults, and other greetings, but the only person Gomez truly cared about was her platoon leader.
Santana took note of the fact that the noncom had chosen to spend the night with her back to a cliff and a good fi?eld of fi?re. The pits had been fi?lled in, however, and the barricade had been removed, which meant the fi?rst squad was ready to move. The platoon leader nodded approvingly. “Nice job, Sergeant. Any excitement last night?”
But before Gomez could answer, DeCosta was on the team freq, his voice tight with anger. “Zebra Six to Alpha Six. . . . The clock is running! Or have you forgotten?
Please bring your platoon forward as quickly as possible. Over and out.”
It was the sort of thing that Gomez expected from offi?cers, and her anger was clear to see. She opened her mouth to speak, but Santana frowned and shook his head. Then, having made no response, he ordered Snyder forward. Meanwhile, as Santana took to the trail, the platoon seethed. None of the legionnaires approved of the way DeCosta was harassing the XO, and Hargo least of all. The serial murderer was still angry about the manner in which DeCosta had shelved him. “Who the hell does the little shit think he is?” the cyborg wanted to know. “One of these days I’m going to grab the bastard and twist his pointy head off!”
“That will be enough of that,” Gomez said sternly.
“Stow the bullshit, or I’ll put you on point for the next fi?ve days.”
With the shrewdness of enlisted people everywhere, Hargo had taken advantage of the disagreement between Santana and DeCosta to keep the war paint on in spite of the major’s order to get rid of it. Which meant that, as the T-2’s big blocky head turned her way, Gomez found herself looking into a pair of bleeding eyes. Hargo was pissed, the noncom knew that, but couldn’t be allowed to run his mouth. Slowly, so as to emphasize what she was doing, the squad leader pulled the zapper out if its holster and held it up for him to see. “You want to dance, big boy?” she inquired. “If so, then bring it on!”
There was a pause, followed by a synthesized rumble. “I got no beef with you, Sarge. You know that.”
Gomez made the zapper disappear. “Yeah, I know that,”
she replied casually. “I was checking, that’s all. Come on, you slackers. Let’s get our asses in gear before the major goes crazy on the captain again.”
The next few hours were largely uneventful as Santana led his platoon north. The column bushwhacked where
