“Sir, the way I see it is, uh, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”
“Which is the violent way?” asked Punch. “For the record, I’m extremely comfortable with violence.”
Chief Cook gave him a quick brothers-from-another-mother smile and continued.
“Ah. Then that would be the easy way. Hard way was the captain’s plan. So, here’s how we could really crash their mental hard drives…”
Ten minutes later, me, Chief Cook, and Hauser walked out into the courtyard. Hauser was carrying the Old Man’s combat shotgun hooked to the back of his carrier. What was left of the ammo from both Pigs had been linked to make one and a half belts. Enough to ruin some days with.
We’d each had a pull from the flask Stinkeye had loaded up for us. Chief Cook was the first.
“Well, if the old bastard was trying to kill me, he certainly arranged the right set of circumstances to make his dreams come true. Here’s to ya, you old fraud. Hope yer already dead somewhere.”
He studied it for a brief second, then hit it. He winced. Coughed.
“Ain’t bad. In fact… I feel… purty good, for the record. Like I could take on the whole galaxy and not really care much who won or lost.”
We each had a shot. Even the captain.
Hauser mimed a pull and passed it on. I loved him for that.
All it did was make you feel invincible. Like you could pull something just about as crazy as we were about to pull and get away with it.
“We’re gonna shake the pillars of the universe,” whispered Chief Cook as we walked out into the Ultra door gunner’s kill zone. Ready to pull our last trick.
So there’s that.
What the Ultra aircrews were seeing, or so we hoped, as the three of us strode into the courtyard, was three things.
A Monarch spec ops intel officer. That was Chief Cook, who always kept his old green beret handy in his ruck, according to him as he quickly walked us through the skullduggery he had planned.
A combat cyborg model trained for asymmetrical urban warfare. Spec ops worked with them often. That was Hauser.
And a prisoner.
That was me.
Because hey, why not?
Chief Cook had even put a cyber collar around my skull. If it worked properly, the cyber collar, I’d be rendered little more than a walking zombie taking orders from the command voice authenticated for the collar.
I could play the part. I was pretty sure I could act dead on my feet. I’d been infantry long enough.
“So,” muttered Chief Cook as we walked out into the orange sunlight to begin the show. “Like I always say. Just because it’s dangerous doesn’t mean it’s not fun. Be cool and don’t start shooting until I do the crew chief. That’s the signal for get it on time, boys and girls.”
Girls made me think of the Little Girl. Her friend showing up right now would be downright awful. Yeah it would kill the Ultras, but we were a little too close for comfort. It would be like playing tag with a tornado.
It made me nervous the chief was repeating our plan. Like he didn’t trust it and was trying to find some last-minute weakness in it so that we’d know exactly how we got killed even as we had no time to correct the deficiency.
“Copy,” said Hauser, sotto voce. “The simians are engaged with the Ultras at the lift on deck six of the science station. Cliffside. There are casualties already. Acting cool now, Chief Warrant Officer Cook.”
“Not you, Hause. You just act like you. Orion. You act dumb. Me. I’ll do the cool part. Ready…”
Guns came out fast. The door gunners drew a bead on us and a crew chief carrying a short automatic carbine came out, weapon aimed right at us.
“Hold on, boys,” croaked Chief Cook in the dry desert air. Then, “Warrant Officer Foster, Two-Twenty-Second Tactical Com Operations. We’ve been planetside for weeks now. Me and the Tin Man bagged us a high-value target and I need to turn him over to your commander for transport if you’re heading back into Centcom.”
The Ultras were all business. They weren’t stupid. You had to score high on intelligence tests to join or so the rumors say. Every Ultra was highly trained in all protocols and procedures. They’re highly efficient killers trained to combat cyborg levels of competency. They are the very definition of razor-sharp and if the plan had involved any edge being gained by our hopefully clever deception, I would have had no hopes as I stood there and looked brain dead.
Mouth open.
Drooling a little. Chief Cook said it would help.
But that wasn’t our plan.
Suddenly the lead dropship started her turbines. The lead pilot whirled his hand giving the mount-up signal. The main engines, bulbous cylinders along the aft fuselage above the cargo deck, began to spin up to their idling howl. Drops two and three started seconds later, the pilots working through their start-up sequences, as the crew chief approached. Weapon pointed at Cook. Obviously the commander on the ground while the Ultra infantry were out sweeping the facility, probably looking for us.
“Intercepting packet bursts on their comm. It’s encrypted,” said Hauser. “Running decode now but my combat probability assessment indicates the Marines are in trouble and falling back to their ships for immediate evacuation. Estimate arrival in six minutes. The simians will be in close pursuit.”
“We only need two, Hause,” muttered Cook from the edge of his perma-grin. Then to the Marine he said, “All on the same side, Sergeant…” as the high-speed low-drag Ultra in combat armor came forward fast. Short carbine ready to dust us all if he smelled anything he didn’t like. And this was when he made the mistake he made.
Combat cyborgs are fearsome predators. For other people. When you’re Ultras you regularly work with them. Maybe like
