Marcus was still yelling. “Reeve? You crazy bastard, I warned you! I warned you not to try to save me. Get your ass back here!”
Marcus would be okay, though. He had water and the grubs couldn’t get at him, and sooner or later, someone would come to see where he was. He mattered to too many people out there, like the idiot who was trying to spring him and a woman who was prepared to wait for him when she could have had any man in Jacinto. When Reeve got out, maybe he’d even call that Hoffman guy himself.
But he had to do it now. He could hear the grubs coming.
“Hang in there, Marcus,” he called, and jumped out to grab the cable, looking up at the square of light above. “And you were right. It was fucking terrific news for a mouse.”
CIC, JACINTO.
The grubs never gave up.
It wasn’t the first time they’d launched an assault this size on multiple fronts, but the last time it had happened, Hoffman had had more assets: more Gears, more artillery, and more Ravens. Now he had to choose between saving south Jacinto or the west of the city. The COG was stretched past breaking point. He looked at the map on the wall and the plot on the chart table, all the assets marked and numbered, and searched for answers, but there was only one. He had to make the call on the basis of where he could save the most, not just lives, but resources like the hospitals, food warehouses, utilities, and the heart of the COG’s forces.
He could live without the Andius highway for a while. The whole area had been trashed anyway. There was nothing of strategic importance to lose apart from the road. But if the ugly gray bastards got into south Jacinto, then the COG was as good as finished.
The doors swung open and Prescott walked in. Hoffman braced for a pep talk but the man just looked at him. “Doesn’t feel right sitting in my office at a time like this, Victor,” he said. “But at least I’ve got some good news for you.”
“It’d need to be very good news indeed, Chairman.”
“Payne’s promised that the Lightmass and the resonator will be deployable by eighteen hundred today.”
That was a big surprise, let alone good news. Hoffman had thought it was weeks away. “It’s ready?”
“No, it’s deployable. He’s not happy, and he says it hasn’t even passed inspection, but I’ve explained that we’re going to use it anyway. Otherwise he’ll be tinkering with it for another month, and another.”
“I’ll live with it,” Hoffman said. Damn, he would have been grateful for a box of sharpened stakes right then. “Because we’re out of options.”
Prescott studied the chart table. It was illuminated like a lightbox, all the assets shown as colored symbols alongside the latest enemy positions and troop strengths, but it would have been obvious to a smart ten-year-old that the grubs were sweeping up from the south in a V movement around the whole south and west of Jacinto. Prescott folded one arm across his chest and tugged at his top lip with his other hand, his I-don’t-want-to-interfere-but-I’m-going-to gesture.
“What are you going to do about the prison?” he asked. “They’ve already had Locust breach the building, yes?”
“They have. Their senior warder called it in.” No, Hoffman hadn’t forgotten Marcus, and he hadn’t forgotten that Anya was in earshot, either, right behind him in an ops room that was holding its breath. “But I’ve only got one platoon out there and I’m going to have to pull them back soon. You’ve seen the numbers. We’ve as good as lost the western perimeter already.”
Prescott didn’t look at him. “Then I think we should order the evacuation of the prison.”
“Fine, but I can’t commit transport, Chairman. They’ll have to take their chances.”
“If the platoon that’s out there can direct that—we’re only talking about forty or so prisoners now. We release them and conscript them. I imagine some of them are very proficient with firearms.”
Hoffman could bet his life on one thing: if Prescott wanted something done and explained it that specifically, then he had a damn good reason for it, and Hoffman would never really know just what that was. But this time he could hazard a guess. Prescott was worried about Marcus. Half the army might have forgotten him, but 26 RTI hadn’t, and there’d be a lot of Gears who’d be pretty demotivated if they thought Prescott hadn’t tried to give him a fighting chance.
“I know at least one of them is,” Hoffman said.
Prescott dropped his arms to his side, nodding to himself as he looked at the map on the wall. “Do it, please.” In fact, he looked right past Hoffman and focused on Anya. “Lieutenant, contact the prison and order them to release the inmates into the custody of—whose platoon’s out there, Colonel?”
“Lieutenant Schachter.”
“And tell the Lieutenant she can arm any of them she deems fit. I’m sure the proximity of the enemy will focus them wonderfully.”
“Yes, sir,” said Anya.
Her voice didn’t change, not the slightest hint that she had any personal interest in what happened to any of the prisoners. It was exactly the same way she’d dealt with being the ops room controller in Kalona when her mother was busy getting herself killed at Aspho Fields. Anya Stroud could keep her cool even when her world was falling apart. Hoffman met her eyes, more by accident than intent, and for a moment he felt guilty that she’d thought he was a better man than he actually was.
Prescott sat down at one of the unoccupied desks with his elbows braced on the arms of the chair, fingers steepled and legs crossed as he watched the radio operators collating reports and sticking pins in the map. Anya gazed at him with a lot more warmth than Hoffman expected. He’d made one ally, then.
“Okay, people, let’s crack on with this,” Hoffman said. He could forget the Slab now. He didn’t have to feel like a complete shit every time Anya looked at him. That was a load off his mind. “Stroud, get hold of Lieutenant Kim and set up an RV with him so I can brief him on the Lightmass. I want you along for that. He’s going to have to deploy the thing as best he can, so get whatever data the DRA has to hand. Mathieson—find Cox for me. I want every available Centaur that’s not already deployed patrolling between Timgad and East Barricade. Get me Major Reid, too.”
“He’s at the refugee center on Corren Way, sir.”
“Get him back here, then. He can’t run an operation from the ground.”
Hoffman always tried to do exactly that himself, but Mathieson was too diplomatic to point it out. The kid did smile, though. It was reassuring that he still could. Hoffman went up to the roof to comfort himself with the closest thing he had to an overall picture of the city and spent a few minutes just listening to the noise in the distance and smelling the smoke and aviation fuel. When he went back downstairs, Prescott was still sitting there in complete silence. He hadn’t even uncrossed his legs. He’d now been parked there for an hour, just watching and not being a pain in the ass—which was better than the alternative—but he was definitely waiting for something. He kept looking at his watch.
“Sir, I’ll let you know when Schachter calls in,” Hoffman said. “You don’t have to sit it out. But if you could put another rocket up Dr. Payne’s ass, that would take a load off my mind. I want everything he’s got that Kim’s going to need.”
“He’s sent the briefing data already.”
Anya looked up. “Yes, got it sir.”
“All of it?”
“Well, just about.”
“Can you chase him for me, Chairman?” Hoffman asked. “Shake everything out of him. He always holds something back.”
Prescott frowned, then nodded. It was all an act, but Hoffman knew him well enough to realize he was waiting on news of Marcus and that he might not want to make that obvious. This was a convenient way to tell him to piss off and stop scaring the CIC team without either of them losing face. And Hoffman did want someone with more clout than him to go and grab Payne hard by the short and curlies. If this didn’t work, they’d be back to worse than square one.
“Thank you, Colonel,”
Prescott said. “You’ll call me, though.”
“Of course.”
Prescott left and Mathieson raised his eyebrows at Hoffman. Hoffman could only shrug and hope Anya wasn’t reading anything into it. But ten minutes later, Schachter came back on the radio. Anya gestured at him, mouthed “Schachter” and indicated the earpiece.
He picked up his headset and held it to one ear. “Go ahead, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, we’ve now extracted three staff and thirty-seven inmates. The grubs have overrun most of the prison but the staff were barricaded in with the prisoners in a disused wing, so we shoved them into the ’Dills. Tight fit, and not very fragrant, but they’re in one piece.”
“Where are you?”
“We’ve pulled back east of the Andius highway. The grub column’s moving south now. That’s it. Kiss goodbye to the western perimeter for the time being.”
Hoffman wanted this over with. He had ten kilometers of the southern perimeter under threat and there was a limit to how long he could spend on this. He’d kept faith with Anya. He could see her watching him discreetly. “Move out, then.” Hoffman now had to ask. “What shape is Fenix in? You’ve got him, yes? He was Two-Six RTI. Remember him?”
There was a long pause. “Someone will. Wait one.” Schachter muted her radio. He heard the click but she didn’t come back to him for three very long minutes. “No, sir. No sign of Fenix. We’re looking for the chief warder. He’ll know.”
“Shit.” There was no hiding this from Anya. She could hear what was happening just from his side of the conversation. “Where the hell is he?”
“No idea, sir. We can go back in. There’s a basement level, but the security gates are locked down.” Schachter paused. Hoffman could hear the artillery in the background. “We’re going to have to move now because we’re taking fire. But we’re willing to try and get across.”
Hoffman didn’t look at Anya. The math was simple. He had a platoon, thirty guys, and a grub brigade right on top of them. Marcus wasn’t where he should have been. He could have been dead; he could have escaped under his own steam. Or he could have been any damn where in a big, sprawling empty maze of a place. Time. They just didn’t have time or numbers on their side.
“Leave him,” Hoffman said.
“Sir—”
It was an awful, silent three seconds. Hoffman floundered. There was a platoon out there that was safe now but wouldn’t be if it tried to cross back over the highway through grub lines. He couldn’t squander any more lives.
“No, screw it,” Hoffman said at last. Screw him. I’m going to have to leave him to rot. I could commit Schachter’s men and find Marcus dead, and then lose them as well. “Goddamn—you can’t take on a battalion of grubs with a platoon. He’s on his own. Get everyone out of the sector.”
“We don’t leave a man behind, sir.”
One of the ops room radio operators looked up, Bacher or Baker or something. Hoffman had never heard the guy offer an opinion in his life. “Yeah, like Fenix didn’t leave my brother behind at Chancery Bridge.”
The ops room was suddenly silent except for the hiss of static on open radio channels and the faint chatter of a printer.
“Move out,” Hoffman said. Not everyone thought Fenix was a straight-up hero. The comment bit Hoffman right in his regimental pride. “And that’s an order, Schachter. Leave him. We’ll check out the place if and when the heat’s off.” And now he had to do the hardest thing of all: to look Anya in the eye. “Lieutenant, is that RV with Kim set up?”
She had her hand to her headset, still apparently calm, but he could see she was biting her bottom lip. That wasn’t an Anya kind of habit. He went over and tapped her on the shoulder. “Come on, Lieutenant. Time to move out. You need to brief Kim. Got your tech data?”
“Coming, sir.” She didn’t look at him. Breaking her heart felt even harder than turning that key to fry Sera’s cities. “Just got to print this off. Five minutes.”
“You want me to let the Chairman know Schachter … completed the extraction?” Mathieson asked.
Hoffman nodded. “Yeah. I know you’ll be diplomatic, but don’t feel obliged to lie for me.”
“Okay, sir.”
This was the harsh shit he had to do. If Prescott didn’t like his decision, then his only option was to override his CDS and order Schachter back across grub lines, and if he did that—well, the working relationship was going to get tense.
I can’t fucking bleed for Marcus Fenix. Would I risk a platoon for some poor asshole from the Tollens, or any other damn regiment?
It was one of those things that had to be done in a war, and it went with the rank. Hoffman knew he’d regret it for the rest of his life. But he couldn’t change his mind, even if that platoon was willing to die to get Marcus out, because it wasn’t their call. It was his. The numbers didn’t stack up, not even for Marcus.
Hoffman headed for the door. Anya snatched up her folio and trotted after him in silence: no remonstration, no pleading, not even a tear.
Fuck you, Marcus. It had to be you, didn’t it? I’ve sweated at night for four goddamn years over you and I’d just about come to terms with it. Now you start it all over again. I wouldn’t want anyone to go back for me. We leave guys behind all the time. We go back for them later. Sometimes they hold out until we can get to them. Sometimes we don’t.
And sometimes I’m left with just two guys on Chancery Bridge who hung on while the rest of their buddies ran out of time and luck.
CIC was all long corridors with noisy tiled or parquet floors, making it feel like an eternity to get outside to the helo pad, and that was a very long walk to take in silence. Hoffman waited for Anya to finally crack and beg him to go back for Marcus. He almost wanted her to, to give him some excuse to change his mind. But she didn’t. She was like her mother, all duty and common sense, but without the crazy risk-taking. She knew the stakes.
When they got outside, Lieutenant Mansell was playing loadmaster for the Ravens. He beckoned Hoffman over and indicated KR-239.
“You okay without a crew chief, sir?” he asked. “I’ve had to put Mitchell on another bird for the day.”
“We’ll manage, Lieutenant.” Hoffman held his cap on to stop the rotor wash from whipping it off. When he looked around, he saw Dom heading his way at a jog. “Anya?” Hoffman gestured to her to board the Raven. “Go ahead. I’ll be two minutes.”
She looked back at Dom but kept walking, tottering in those heels. Hoffman knew he now had some explaining to do. A sane colonel would have turned his back and got on with his job, but Dom deserved better. He deserved to be told.
“Sir?” Dom speeded up and came sprinting across the pad. Hoffman had no idea where he’d come from, but he had his finger to his earpiece as if he was talking to someone while he ran. “Sir!”
“I need to talk to you, Santiago.”
“And I need to talk to you, sir.” He came to a halt in front of Hoffman and completely ignored Mansell. “Did I hear right? We’re leaving Marcus behind?”
“Who’d you hear that from?”
Dom looked down at the ground. He didn’t need to say Prescott. Crafty asshole: he wouldn’t do anything as blatant as countermanding Hoffman’s orders, but he knew damn well all he had to do was call Dom on the radio, tell him Marcus was in the shit, and he’d do the job for him. Damn, Prescott really was fixated on Marcus for some reason. Was 26 RTI’s opinion that important? It didn’t make sense, but Hoffman didn’t have time to worry about that now.
“Santiago, I’m waiting,” he said.
“Can’t say, sir.”
“Okay, you heard right, then.”
“But you let the other assholes out.”
It was all falling apart fast. Dom’s face was all wounded betrayal and—worse—shock, obvious shock at his old CO not being the man he’d always thought he was. “You can’t abandon Marcus, sir. You can’t.”
“You want to tell me how I can divert a couple of companies plus support to ta
ke on a grub brigade on the off-chance that he’s still alive in there? Because Schachter can’t do it on her own.” Hoffman couldn’t bear it. It was bad enough hurting Anya, but crushing Dom was almost more than he could stomach. He was damn fond of that boy. If Hoffman had a favorite, it was Dom: mindlessly brave, dog-loyal, the man who’d take a bullet for you without a second thought. Hoffman was telling him to leave his brother behind, quite literally. Carlos was gone, his kids were gone, and if he ever saw his wife again, he’d probably only be ID’ing her corpse. “I’m sorry. When the heat’s off, we’ll go back and try to find him.”
“Sir, no offense, but I’m damn well going back for him now.”
What do I do?
What the fuck do I do now and how will I live with it?
Hoffman knew what he should have done, but his resolve was already giving way to something far more personal and dangerous, something he hadn’t even let get the better of him for Margaret. He took a few paces toward the Raven. Then he stopped and turned, aware of his audience. “There’s maybe five hundred, a thousand grubs around the Slab. You were a terrific commando, Santiago, but those aren’t good odds even for you.”
“I can get through on my own.”
Mansell was watching. He pitched in unasked. “Santiago, move out.”
“Goddamn it, sir.” Dom rolled straight over Mansell’s order. His voice was almost a sob. “How can you do this to him? How can you do this to me? I’m going back for him, and you’ll have to frigging shoot me to stop me.”
Dom turned away and started jogging toward the ’Dills parked on the edge of the landing pad. Mansell turned to Hoffman, visibly shocked.
“You’re not going to let him do that, are you, sir?”