Steven Kent - The Clone Alliance

“Hurry,” one of them responded.

I opened the door. Diving through a cross fire of lasers, the thirteen remaining members of Gold 2 dived into the launch bay, and I sealed the doors.

“How did you get in here?” Gold 2 leader asked as he caught his breath.

“I came in through the back door,” I said, pointing to the elevator.

“What’s going on down there?” the mission leader called.

“We’re in.”

“Can you get the bay doors open?”

“We already have.”

Two SEALs hunched over the console that controlled the atmospheric locks. It only took them a moment to open the outer door of the locks.

The first group of three hundred men passed through the locks. These were the engineers, navigators, and mechanics borrowed from other battleships. They would be little use in capturing this ship, but we could not risk losing them on a spacewalk. Among these swabbies would be a few civilian pilots with experience flying self-broadcasting explorers.

Outside the ship, Marines and SEALs rushed the novices into the launch bay, making certain that no straggler fell behind.

The next seven hundred men to arrive were the SEALs and Marines—including the men from my platoon. They were the expendable ones.

“SEALs leader, this is Colonel Aldus Grayson, do you read me?” I knew Grayson. He was the pontificating bastard who had ridden on the explorer with me when I transferred out to the Obama . He was the kind of officer who wants people to know he is in command even when he can’t tell his dick from his compass. His voice cut through all frequencies on the interLink. Chances were that the Mogats heard him as clearly as we did.

“Yes, sir,” the mission leader said.

“I’m taking command of this shindig. Can you brief me on the situation?”

I could brief him on the situation. We had small groups of men in the bridge and a second small group of men in the engine room. They were holding on for dear life, while the perfectly capable man who had led us this far wasted time updating the windbag of an officer who wanted to seize control.

“We have twenty-three men holding the bridge and thirty men holding the engine room, sir,” the mission leader said.

“Opposition?” Grayson asked.

“Several hundred Mogats outside each position, sir.” The good news was that the Mogats needed the engine room and bridge as much as we did. They were not about to throw grenades into either area.

“How long can you hold out, son?” Grayson asked. I did not like the sound of that question. Officers ask questions like that when they only care about their own skin. A former boot-camp operator, Grayson had probably never seen combat in his career.

“They’re trying to cut through the doors with welding torches, sir,” the mission leader answered. “We need assistance.”

“I see,” Colonel Grayson said. As an officer, he had blundered into a situation way beyond his abilities.

“This is Blue Team Leader.”

“Yes, son?” Grayson asked.

“They’ve almost cut through the hatch down here.”

“I see,” Grayson said. He showed no signs of life. He was a chess player contemplating his next move with all the time in the world.

I could no longer handle watching this pompous inactivity. “Evans, Sutherland, Thomer, round ’em up. We’re breaking out of here,” I said on the Marine frequency reserved for my platoon.

“Glad to,” Evans said.

Only a minute later, my platoon started lining up in front of the hatch. I took my place at the front of the platoon. We would toss a grenade to clear the corridor, then come out shooting. I asked one of the SEALs to work the hatch.

“You, by the bulkhead. Where do you think you’re going, son?” came over the open frequency that could be heard by Marine and Mogat alike.

“Sir,” I shouted like a kid in boot camp speaking to a drill sergeant, “the sergeant and his platoon are simply lining up, sir.” Then, in a quieter tone, I added, “You are broadcasting over an open frequency, sir. The Mogats can hear you.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass who can hear me, son,” Grayson yelled. “You can’t open that launch-bay door, there might be a thousand Mogats waiting to—”

He never finished the sentence. “Did anybody see who fired that shot?” I asked as I replaced my pistol in its holster.

“Wish I did,” Philips grumbled.

“Must be a sniper in here,” Evans said.

No one else responded.

“Mission leader, this is Master Gunnery Sergeant Wayson Harris from Platoon 103.” I called on a proprietary frequency that our men would hear but the Mogats would not.

“Where’s Grayson?” the mission leader asked.

“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.