Hopper didn’t like what he was hearing. He had enough men to maybe—maybe—hold off a small, probing attack. Enough to protect the museum from vandals or looters, which is what he figured Big Nee was after. But the way Elektra was talking… he’d heard that concern before from the other side of a comm.
“Copy that,” Hopper said. “Are you seeing any activity from the R-A base?”
There was a long pause that told Hopper everything he needed to know.
“We are. They’re mobilizing; likely target is the docks.”
“Oba,” Hopper said, trying not to feel agitated.
They’d pushed into the Soob undermanned, leaving all of their Kublaren allies inland as well as a large element of Team Nilo mercs. And while they’d achieved their objectives, Hopper didn’t like the way the wind was blowing. They’d secured a foothold, but that was tenuous at best until reinforcements could fortify their positions.
And who knew how long that would be?
“Trust us on this, Hopper. We have contingencies. We’re seeking to mobilize our new Kublaren allies in the city. If your team runs into trouble, it’ll be from the ZQ. Keep a watch there and you should be fine.”
“Roger. Tell me what that bot sees once you have it overhead.”
“We will.”
“Hopper out.”
Sket. Hopper moved to a group of mercs around the corner of the museum, backs against the building, boots baking in the sunlight while the rest of their bodies hid in as much shadow as possible. There were six men here armed with N-4 rifles.
“I need three teams of two.” He pointed at the men, dividing them up. “You two, head for the Kanto building. Four blocks west. Get visuals on our AO and then report in.”
The two men rousted themselves from the shade and hurried back out into the Kublar heat and sun.
“I want sentries ten blocks ahead on 3rd Street. Two men northward, two men south. Copy?”
“Somethin’ going down, Hopper?”
“Could be. Big Nee wants us ready in case the zhee decide to pick another fight.”
“Thought the koobs took care of that?”
“Rule of thumb,” Hopper said, slinging his carbine over his shoulder. “If you didn’t do it yourself, assume it wasn’t done right.”
The merc laughed. “Roger that.”
Hopper trailed the two teams as they left the side of the museum and moved in opposite directions down 3rd street, jawing at their companions as they jogged past them.
It was midday and no one was out. Largely due to the full-scale riot that had greeted the Soob. A breakfast of destruction and mayhem. But also because this was the time of day when the blazing Kublaren sun was at its most vicious. When it felt as though the sea beyond the coastline would boil, a humidity so sticky and extreme, you could practically see the steam vapor undulating before your eyes. Like a sugar lobster dangling over the pot, waiting to be dropped into the bubbly, roiling water.
Hopper watched the two-man team jog northward along the sidewalks until they disappeared behind a sheen of waving air that seemed to blur everything. There was nothing to be made out through the curtain of heated air except the occasional glint of the sun from a sled’s windshield or the wavy backdrop of buildings and streets, which seemed to blend together to form a continual gray and tan painted canvas that only suggested shapes. It hid the scouts almost entirely.
How hot was it?
Hopper pulled back his gloves to check his watch, tapping the display and feeling a layer of sweat squeeze out from beneath the device.
118 degrees. Using the Republic standard. Not a dry heat. And it would only grow hotter as the afternoon wore on.
Shaking his head, Hopper checked the water level of his hydration pack since he was already looking at his watch, swiping over to take the reading. He was good on water, behind on drinking. In danger of allowing himself to get dehydrated. He pulled the tube from his shoulder and drank in sips of warm water, the pack’s chilling features unable to hold up against the combination of his body heat and the constant barrage of the Kublar sun.
No sooner had he finished than the scouts he’d sent out came running back, bursting through the mirages as if emerging from the other side of a hedgerow. Hopper could tell something bad was going down, could see it from the way they were running.
Running like that. In this heat. Something was up.
Hopper pinged the men on the comm. “What’s the sitrep?”
“Lots of koobs,” panted one of the mercs. “Armed.”
That was going to require more information.
“Did they engage?” Hopper hadn’t heard any shots fired.
“Looked like they had intent.”
The other merc chimed in, his breath coming in near gasps. Probably more temperature than the sprint itself. “I saw some of ’em raise weapons.”
Hopper activated the all-comm for his unit. “Inbound force headed our way. Supposed to be friendly, but be ready.”
The men quickly moved into battle positions, manning their light repeating blasters and finding suitable cover should any shooting start.
Standing in the middle of the street, Hopper looked around for his assistant team leader. He found himself wishing Team Nilo would assign rank, just because it came more naturally to mimic what all these mercs had grown accustomed to while serving. It would be so much easier to shout “Sergeant!” and have the right man at his side. As a former Marine captain, that was his natural instinct. But that wasn’t how things worked, and Hopper knew that some of the men on his team had been officers in the Army but were now just “team members” not afforded the title of Team Leader (TL) or Assistant Team Leader (ATL).
So maybe that was it or maybe it was something else. Either way, he needed his ATL immediately.
“Where’s Van Dop?” he shouted, knowing the man should be somewhere nearby.
“Van Dop!” one of the mercs echoed.
Then another shouted the ATL’s first name down the
