“We had a problem with a sniper. It appears you are back in command, sir. Requesting permission to retake the ship.”
“Permission granted, sea soldier.”
“Let’s give them a housewarming gift,” I said. The SEAL opened the hatch partway and I tossed my grenade through. He sealed the hatch for the explosion, then opened it wide. Philips, Thomer, and I were the first ones out, followed by the rest of the platoon.
Despite the grenade, we entered into a cross fire. A corridor ran parallel to the launch bay, and another corridor led straight to it. Teams of Mogat commandos had set up barricades on either side of the door and up the hall straight ahead. The grenade sent the Mogats running around corners, but it did not kill many of them.
A Mogat peeked around a corner and fired at Philips.
“Kiss my pecker!” Philips shouted when the laser glanced his shoulder, burning through his armor. He spun and fired.
The hatch opened behind us, and hundreds of SEALs poured out. Lasers came from every direction. They had more men and cover, but we dug in quickly.
A Mogat laser struck the man standing to my right. Served him right, the fool was standing erect in a gunfight. Anyone who wanted to survive would crouch or kneel—at least, anyone but Philips and Thomer. Leading the way, the armor covering his shoulder still bubbling, Philips ran straight up the floor, jumped over the barricade, and caught a knot of Mogats flat-footed. He’d shot the first three before Thomer caught up to help.
The Mogats fell back.
“Illych, you hanging in down there?” I called to Illych.
“Nice to hear from you,” he said. “Can’t talk now. We’ve got company coming.”
We needed Marines more than SEALs for this fight. This was not recon work; this was a battle. We needed bodies to secure the area.
We poured down the hall like floodwaters from a broken dam. Twenty or more Mogats tried to make a stand by the first bank of elevators. One of Evans’s fire teams pinned them down while another team found a parallel corridor and flanked them. They killed every last one of them without taking a single casualty.
“You still with me?” I called to Illych. I found a stairwell and led my own mix of SEALs and Marines toward the engine room.
“Harris, they’re like ants. You squish ’em, and they just keep coming. I’ve cooked more than thirty so far.”
“How is the rest of the team?” I asked as I leaped a flight of stairs, caught my balance, and started down the hall.
“We’re down to three,” Illych said. I heard no fear in his voice. “Make that two.”
“I can see you,” I said. Actually, I saw the entrance to the engine room. Someone had cut the doors out of the hatch, which was now just a hole in the wall. A flood of Mogat commandos dressed in fatigues tried to rush that hole, then backed off.
“Time we pecker-slapped these boys, Master Sarge!” Philips shouted. He had the heart of a poet. Philips, Thomer, and a few dozen men came into the hall from one side as my group attacked from the other.
“It’s getting crowded in here,” Illych called.
We opened fire, and the Mogats turned on us. It looked like stalemate for a moment. We had cover and position, but they had three men for every man in our group. The stalemate ended quickly, though. With the Mogats packed so close together, we hit them with every shot.
They did not give up easily, though, and we lost men. One lucky bastard hit Sutherland as he and his squad ducked for cover.
“Keep them pinned,” a SEAL leader radioed me over the interLink.
“Lay down fire,” I shouted to my men. We hid behind corners and in hatches. Lasers burned into walls, the floor, and the ceiling. Had the hatch not presented a bottleneck, the Mogats would have escaped into the engine room. Because it did, Illych managed to pick off the Mogats who tried.
In the meantime, more SEALs and Marines poured into the hall. We had cut off the Mogats’ escape routes, then we pinned them down. Soon we closed in on them. That ended the battle.
“Illych?” I asked.
“Blue Team, reporting.” Illych and another SEAL emerged from the engine room. When we’d arrived, Blue Team had forty men. Only two survived.
The battle for control of the bridge went much more smoothly. The Mogats never managed to cut through the thick bulkheads surrounding the bridge.
We captured the bridge, the engine room, the launch bay, and more. Realizing that they had lost the battle, two hundred Mogat sailors fell back into a cargo hold to make a last stand. When they refused to surrender, the SEALs welded the cargo-hold hatch and carried them home as prisoners of war.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“Colonel Grayson died a hero, sir,” I said, looking Admiral Brocius straight in the eye. “One of the bravest officers I have ever known.” Now that I had killed the late Colonel Grayson, it only seemed fitting that I should elevate the son of a bitch to hero status. Semper fi, Marine.
“A hero to the last, I’m sure,” Brocius growled. Whether he admitted it or not, he knew the score. Grayson had died in a sealed room surrounded by over a thousand men. Someone from our side shot him, and I fit the profile.
“I always hate it when natural-borns die in battle,” Brocius said. “Reports, letters to relatives, all that hero bullshit. Any idea who shot him?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“Did you shoot him?” Brocius asked.
“Certainly not, sir,” I said.
“Harris, you came back with a specking Mogat battleship. You come back with another prize like that, and you can shoot ‘Wild Bill’ for all I care.” “Wild Bill” Grace was the most powerful man in Unified Authority government.
“I do not want to shoot anyone but the enemy, sir,” I said.
“Whoever that enemy might be,” Illych muttered under his breath. He knew me too well.
This was a private briefing. Illych and I stood at attention. Admiral Brocius and Admiral Brallier sat behind a table reviewing us. Brocius would give me a one-on-one briefing when he got the chance. I would learn a lot more without a competing admiral in the room. Brallier would do the same with Illych.
“Harris, I’ve reviewed the records from the battle,” Brallier said. “I must say, I’m impressed.”
I stood at attention, staring straight ahead, but I could see the satisfaction on Brocius’s face. His man had stolen the show. Illych might have been the first man on the Mogat planet and one of the last men holding the engine room, but nothing upstaged my launch-bay pyrotechnics.
“You bucking to become an officer again?” Brocius asked.
“No, sir. The sergeant is not looking for a promotion, sir,” I said. Later I would ask him about promoting Philips, but this was neither the time nor the place.
“How about you, Illych?” Admiral Brallier asked. “Do you think you deserve some bars for this?”
“No, sir,” Illych answered.
We both knew the same thing—becoming an officer meant living with natural-borns and dabbling in their petty politics. We preferred field work to command.
“I see,” said Brallier, sounding a little like the late Colonel Grayson.
The interview went on for an entire hour. Both admirals wasted time beating us down to make sure we did not put in for promotions. As we left the office, our caps tucked under our left arms and our minds swollen with frustration, Illych said, “Colonel, can I buy you a drink?”
“I’m a sergeant,” I said.
“A master gunnery sergeant…yes, I know,” Illych said. “You were a colonel when I met you, you did nothing to
