One Week Later

  Sanchez sat in the chair of his office as he gulped down the last of his coffee. Over the course of the last week, things had settled into an almost predictable routine. But that could change at any moment. The Marines were forced to snatch an hour or two of restless sleep in fits and starts, and he slept the least of all. A knock at the door snapped him out of his reverie, and Sergeant Heller entered without waiting for permission. If the big man was tired, which he surely was, he didn’t show it.

  “Shift report, sir, before I hand over to Sergeant Davis,” said Heller.

  “Just give me the short version,” said Sanchez, massaging his temples with one hand.

  “Morale among the Marines is good, considering. A couple of brawls broke out between civilians. We put a quick stop to it. A few bruises, nothing serious. Doc McTaggart advises that she has enough medical supplies to last until the Argos gets here, but we’re cutting it fine,” said Heller.

  Sanchez nodded. Nerves were frayed, and tempers were short. Fistfights they could handle, and so far, none of the civilians had tried to gain access to weaponry. But they outnumbered the Marines almost ten to one, and he was not about to order them to open fire on civilians. If they got it into their heads that they would be better off if they were the ones with the guns, he wasn’t sure he would be able to stop them.

  “We’ve had two more encounters in the past twenty-four hours. Their scouts are testing the perimeter. No visual contact yet. The robotic sentries are seeing them off for now, but it doesn’t look like they’re giving up. But Doctor Yau did spot a pattern. Most of the incidents occur at night.”

  With the shutters sealed, there was nothing to mark the passage of time. He had no idea if it was day or night; those words had become meaningless. There was only the perpetual twilight created by the low, artificial lighting of the complex.

  “When is nightfall?” asked Sanchez.

  Heller checked his watch. “About an hour ago, sir.”

  “Double the patrols,” he ordered. “Effective immediately.”

  Heller nodded in agreement, and Sanchez leaned back in his chair. He was tired. So very tired, and old.

  “Are we any closer to finding out where they are coming from?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer to that question.

  “No, sir,” said Heller flatly. “With most of our security systems disabled, tracking them is impossible.” Sanchez let out a deep sigh. The missing personnel were surely dead by now. If not at the clawed hands of the xenomorphs, then they succumbed to LV-784’s equally inhospitable environment. Exposure, hypothermia, and dehydration would have picked them off until there were none left.

  “And the yautja?” he asked, almost hesitantly.

  “Still no sign of it.”

  Sanchez raised an eyebrow. “He hasn’t tried to hunt any of the xenomorphs?”

  “As far as we can tell, no sir, it has not.”

  “Goddammit,” he muttered, slamming his fist on the desk. “He shows up here, the middle of nowhere, cuts his way through a dozen people to release an entire hive of xenomorphs, and then doesn’t hunt any of them. He shoots down a dropship loaded with civilians to enforce a no-fly zone, and then doesn’t hunt any of us. It doesn’t make sense. What am I missing here, Sergeant?”

  It did not change their immediate circumstance, but it irked him nonetheless. As enigmatic as the yautja could be, their motives were simple. Straightforward. Direct. This one was different. It had its reasons, he was certain of that, but not knowing what they were made it even more dangerous.

  “Maybe it bit off more than it can chew? Realises it’s outgunned,” ventured Heller.

  “Unlikely. If he wanted us all dead, we would be dead. Besides, these things live for the hunt. He would welcome the challenge,” said Sanchez.

  “Maybe it’s dead,” suggested Heller, without the slightest hint of a jest.

  “No, no he’s still out there,” said Sanchez quietly. “I just don’t know what the hell kind of game he’s playing.” An uncomfortable silence descended over the room as Sanchez tried to put the pieces together over and over, but every time he came up emptyhanded.

  Heller was the first to speak. “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. Thank you. Dismissed,” said Sanchez, and Heller turned to leave. “Actually, one more thing. The woman that you rescued from Hangar 7. With everything that’s happened, I still haven’t spoken to her. Now is as good a time as any. Please have her brought to me for debrief.”

  “Yessir, will you require me to sit in on it?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. Let’s try the gentle approach. See how a one-on-one goes. We might get more information that way. Just have someone escort her here, then get some sleep.”

  Heller nodded and left. Sanchez rubbed his eyes. He needed more coffee. This was going to be interesting.

  *

  “Come in,” he hollered as he remained seated behind his desk. A PFC entered escorting a young woman. She wore navy Weyland-Yutani branded coveralls, but still managed to look out of place as she took in the details of his spartan office in subdued, furtive glances.

  “Please wait outside, Private,” he said, addressing the Marine, “and close the door behind you.” The private left without a word while the woman locked eyes on Sanchez, sizing him up.

  “Please, have a seat,” he said as he gestured to the empty chair across from him. She hesitated, eyeing it and then him with cold suspicion before gently lowering herself into the seat. “I apologise for not doing this sooner, but I am sure you understand the situation we are all in.”

  She did not react, continuing to regard him with the same unreadable expression.

  “My name is Colonel Emil Sanchez,” he continued. “I am the commanding officer of the Colonial Marines detachment assigned to this outpost, and I’m afraid that you now have me at a disadvantage Miss…?”

  The woman did not speak. Instead, she allowed the question to hang in the air, unanswered. This was going to be harder than he thought. Twenty years as a USCM officer he was used to issuing orders, not coaxing information from an uncooperative witness.

  “You have to at least tell me your name,” he pressed.

  “No tengo que decirte nada, cerdo,” she hissed.

  “?Podemos hacer esto en espa?ol si lo prefieres?” he asked, ignoring her insult. The young woman looked away. It was the first time she had taken her eyes off him.

  “Whatever,” she said with a shrug.

  “In English then. Look, it can’t hurt to tell me your name, can it?” he implored.

  She gave a theatrically exaggerated sigh. “Angel.”

  “First name or last?”

  “It’s whatever you want it to be,” she said wistfully.

  “And how old are you?”

  “Old enough,” she said with a hint of mock seduction.

  “For the record,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.

  “Twenty-five.”

  “And do you know where we are?” he leaned in slightly.

  “Some shithole,” she swore.

  Sanchez sighed. He did not mean to, but he was tired. He was bone tired, and this was going nowhere. “Respectfully, Miss Angel, I did not bring you here to play guessing games,” he said, while not entirely concealing his exasperation.

  “I know why I’m here. You’re tense. On edge. You need a release. That’s why you had your soldier leave us alone, isn’t it?” she said seductively. He noticed the pitch of her voice had changed. Had become lighter, more girlish. It made her sound younger. Too young. “You’re a little older than my usual customer, but you’re kinda handsome for a grandpa.” She parted her knees, one hand running up her thigh as she used the other to undo the top three buttons on her coveralls, exposing the top of her breast, and a glimpse of a long, red, vertical surgical scar…

  Sanchez leaned back in his chair. “If you are trying to make me uncomfortable, Miss Angel, it’s not going to work. You can stop embarrassing yourself now,” he said sternly. In his frustration, it had sounded harsher than he had intended, but he could not let her gain the upper hand. She snorted in disgust. Her demeanour instantly changing as she gave him an angry, contemptuous look.

  “Then what do you want, old man?” she spat.

  “Yau, Miss Angel. I want Doctor Yau,” he said flatly.

  Angel gave a cynical half laugh. “I knew it. It’s always something. This was never for my benefit. You just thought you could use me,” she said, the voice of the woman-child having vanished as quickly as it appeared

  “I am on your side here, Miss,” he said as she shook her head, rubbing her arms defensively. “But I can’t help you unless you help me. I can indict Yau for illegal research, breeding dangerous xeno species, interstellar smuggling of biohazardous materials, a dozen other things, but I will never be able to make any of it stick. Wey-Yu lawyers will tear through that like armour piercing rounds through paper. But involuntary human medical experiments, kidnap, detention and murder? They won’t be able to make that just go away.”

  Angel said nothing, looking unconvinced.

  “I know you were one of his test subjects,” he said quietly, leaning in. “Do you think I don’t know how you got that scar? If you tell me what happened, it’s admissible as evidence. I can hand him over to the JAG division before Wey-Yu get their claws into him, and they will never get him back. He’ll spend the rest of his life in prison. But I can’t do that without your help.”

  She looked down, and for the first time she looked genuinely uncomfortable.

  “You can button up, by the way,” he said gently, nodding to her coverall that still hung open, and she did so without a word.

  “Did you find anyone else?” she asked quietly, so much so that he had to strain to hear.

  “No. You were the only one. I’m sorry.” He thought back to the mission into Delta. The holding cells. The cells with the doors torn off. A pained look flickered across her face. Only for an instant, and obscured by her hair, but it was there. Had she known the other prisoners? Did she have friends?

  “Please, Miss,” he implored, struggling to hide his frustration as he tried to press her as gently as he could. “You have to give me something.”

  Angel seemed to shrink into her chair, holding herself just a little more tightly, making her appear smaller. A dead end, he realised.

  “Perhaps you can help me with something else then,” he said, hoping a change of subject would help. “You are the sole survivor of the incident in Hangar 7. That makes you the only person who has seen the yautja in action against armed personnel and lived to talk about it.”

  Her eyes went wide at the mention of Hangar 7. “I didn’t see anything,” she said earnestly. Her voice contained a note of rising panic, and the high, girlish tone had returned. She wasn’t just uncomfortable. Now, she sounded scared.

  “Heard something then? Anything you can remember could prove useful,” he pressed.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” she said, and then began muttering to herself in Spanish too quietly for him to hear, pulling her legs up to her chest and rocking almost imperceptibly. He knew a trauma trigger when he saw one. She had seen things no one should ever see.

  It’s okay, I believe you,” he assured her, and that seemed to have the desired effect. He leaned back in his chair. Angel had stopped muttering, but still would not look at him. This was a waste of time. Too scared of Yau to testify, and whatever she had seen in Hangar 7, she was blocking out. He could sympathise, especially with the second part, but it didn’t help him. He could feel his frustration boiling over. He wanted answers, he wanted Yau, and he wanted some goddamn sleep. He took a breath, forcing himself to remain composed.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “I won’t keep you any longer, Miss Angel,” he said softly. “Thank you for your time, and if you do remember anything, please do speak to me or one of my NCOs.”

  “Are we done?”

  “Yes, we’re done. Private, come in,” he hollered at the door. A moment later the PFC entered and stood at attention. “Please escort the young lady back to the barracks.”

  “I know the way,” she spat as he brushed away young Marine, who gave a quick glance towards Sanchez. He gave the young man a nod. Let her go. The private nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

  He stood, and began pacing the breadth of his office, fist clenched. He had banked on her being more forthcoming. His star witness. Instead, he had nothing, and that meant Yau, Sloan, the whole lot of them were going to get away with it, even if they somehow survived that long. He was so tired, but now he could not sleep. The debrief had been the last straw. Suddenly, his office felt too small. Too confined. A week in this place had everyone wound tighter than a two-dollar watch. Himself most of all. If he stayed here a second longer, he was going to lose it. He needed some air. He threw on his cover and pushed past his desk, hissing through clenched teeth as he smacked his hand hard off the corner. He closed his eyes and took a breath as he waited for the pain to subside, before stepping out into the cold air of the corridor.

  *

  The corridor was dimly lit, and noticeably cooler than his office. Quiet, except for the constant, barely perceptible thrum. He took a breath, allowing the cold air to calm his frayed nerves. It was late, so the place was mostly deserted. All of the civilians huddled together in the barracks, which was on the other side Operations from his office. A lone Marine stood slumped against the wall, casually holding a plasma rifle with one arm. He looked up at the sound of Sanchez’s approaching footsteps, and bolted upright when he saw who it was. Sanchez gave him a sharp look, but let it slide. He remembered all too well his days as a grunt, made to stand guard for hours on end.

  The corridor opened up into the open plan Operations centre. A large, unremarkable room used more for day-to-day running than for tactical planning. It was empty, except for one lone figure, poking around a rat’s nest of cabling beneath the hastily set up terminals that controlled the robotic sentries. With their back turned, and the lights low, he could not tell who it was, but he was immediately suspicious as to why would anyone be sulking around sentry gun control terminals unsupervised. He approached cautiously, and as he drew closer and his eyes adjusted, he recognised him.

  “Sloan,” he bristled.

  The merc did not acknowledge him, and instead continued his nervous search.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded sternly.

  “I’m looking for a cigarette,” said Sloan without standing or turning.

  “A cigarette?” asked Sanchez incredulously. He had heard him perfectly well, but the answer caught him off guard.

  “Yes, Colonel, a cigarette. I’ve gone four days without a drag and I’m fucking tense,” Sloan grumbled.

  He was glad Sloan could not see his face as he struggled to supress a wry smile. “You know what they say about quitting; no time like the present.”

  “I don’t want to quit. I want a goddamn cigarette,” cursed Sloan.

  “Well, you’re not gonna find one under there. Get up,” he ordered, but Sloan ignored him. “Maybe you could send another team of men to Hangar 7. See if they find anything.”

  Sloan froze. Sanchez stiffened as the younger man slowly stood and turned to face him. His face was even more drawn than usual. His scruffy stubble was becoming a full beard, and had more visible grey than usual. Tall as he was, he was staring down his hawk nose at him, as his narrow blue-grey eyes burned with a cold fire. For a moment, Sanchez wondered if Sloan was about to strike him, and for a moment, part of him almost wished he would.

  “Clearly, I’ve been too lenient. I’ve turned a blind eye to you and your men sulking around, but that ends now. This area is restricted. If I catch you or your men poking around critical systems again, I’ll throw you to the damn xenos,” he growled. “Don’t be here when I get back.”

  Sloan didn’t react. His expression unreadable. Sanchez could not tell if he believed him or not, but in that exact moment, he really did not care. He turned to leave, and could feel Sloan’s gaze burning into the back of his head as he walked away.

  “There is…just one other thing, Colonel,” said Sloan nonchalantly.

  Sanchez stopped, mouthing a silent curse before turning back to face him.

  “Me and the boys, well, we’ve been wondering about this since day one. Why did they send you?”

  Sanchez’s eyes narrowed.

  “You see,” Sloan continued, “usually for a gig like this they would send a junior officer. Some West Point prick who just got his captain’s bars. So, imagine my surprise when they send a bona fide, honest-to-God, genuine full-bird colonel all the way out here to manage a single company.” He trailed off, allowing the implication to hang in the air.

  “What do you want, Sloan?” he growled through gritted teeth.

  “The truth, Colonel,” said Sloan, his sales pitch persona having returned. “What happened? Did you fuck a general’s daughter? His granddaughter? Something worse? Sending a senior field grade officer all the way out here, that’s a long way to go for a cover up. Whatever it was, it must have been bad.”

  Sanchez said nothing.

  “You act like you’re so much better than me, but we’re both out here for a reason. Neither one of us is innocent, but at least I’m honest about it,” said Sloan with a pitiless smirk.

  “Are you finished?” said Sanchez flatly.

  “For now,” said Sloan, smiling like a shark.

  Turning on his heels, Sanchez left without another word. He did not need to turn around to know the bastard was grinning from ear to ear.

  *

  “I’ll call,” said Morse as he tossed the chips into the small pile at the centre of the circle. The deck of cards had been a lucky find. He and the boys had gone through the place when the Marines weren’t looking and “appropriated” anything of value. Cigarettes, a couple of Playboy magazines, a half-full bottle of vodka that must have cost its original owner an arm and a leg, and one poker set that had been their sole source of entertainment for the past week. The Marines either did not notice, or did not care, and no one else dared to challenge them. The civvies had always kept their distance from them anyway, and that suited Morse just fine. Four hundred people crammed into a space meant for less than half that, yet he the boys had a whole corner all to themselves.

  They had been playing for over an hour when he looked up to see Sloan return from his search for more cigarettes, and looked to be in an even worse mood than when he left. Morse knew better than to immediately speak up.

  “Find any cigarettes, boss?” asked Santino.

  “What the fuck do you think?” scolded Sloan as he took a seat. “Deal me in.”

  “Small blind is fifty. Big blind is a hundred,” said McKenna, tossing out the cards.

  “Ah shit, I fold,” said Santino, tossing his cards in disgust.

  “No surprises there,” said Sweeney with a smirk.

  “Just was dealt a bad hand is all,” Santino protested weakly.

  “Story of your life, mate,” said McKenna. “I’ll raise.”

  Morse let the game go a few more rounds, peering over the cards as he carefully watched Sloan. The man was jonesing hard. The sweat on his brow, the way he constantly bounced his knee. He would need to choose his moment carefully, but in the end, it was McKenna who beat him to it.

  “You know, boss, me and the boys were talking,” he said, keeping his voice low and quiet while still being conversational. “We don’t reckon they’ve got much of a chance here.”

  Sloan looked up from his cards, but did not speak.

  “Some of us think we should make a break for it,” he whispered, leaning close.

  “Even if we get out, then what? We all go to prison? Fuck that,” added Santino.

  Sloan shook his head as he threw more chips into the growing pile. “Even if we can get to the hardware, its eight of us against almost fifty of them. I don’t much like our chances. Then there’s still that thing out there enforcing a no-fly zone over the base. Just sit tight for now.”

  “These people are fucked. I say we take our chances. It’s gotta be better than waiting here to die,” protested Morse, matching Sloan’s call with another handful of chips. “You gotta play the cards you’re dealt.”

  “Too rich for my blood. I fold,” said McKenna.

  “Same, I’m out,” said Santino, throwing down his cards.

  “All in,” said Sloan, tossing the last of his chips into the pile as he stared hard at Morse. “You in or out?” he asked with a quiet confidence. One thing about Sloan, he was good, but not that good. Morse could always tell when he was bluffing. He always slightly oversold it. A little too confident. A little too smugly sure of himself. The smirk, the gleam in his eye, there was always a giveaway that he was overplaying his hand. He never could fully hide his liar’s smile. But this time, there was none of that. Morse looked down at his own hand. Two pairs. Good, not great, and knowing Sloan, the son of a bitch probably had a straight flush.

  “Na, I fold,” he said, laying his cards on the table. Sloan smiled as he laid down his own cards. One pair. Morse watched in stunned silence as he raked in his winnings.

  “It’s not the cards,” said Sloan. “It’s how you play them. We sit tight, for now. The jarheads are tired. Stretched thin. We’ll get our chance soon enough.”

  *

  Morse paced near the edge of the room. It was after midnight, station time, and the lights throughout the barracks were dimmed or off. Almost everyone, even the lads, were asleep. But he was still stewing over his losses. When this was over, Sloan would collect. That was for damn sure. Anyone else, he would have slit their fucking throat in their sleep and been done with it, but the boss was the boss. Besides, the boss had a plan.

  He looked up to see a woman enter the barracks, silently gliding between the cots, and even in the darkness, he recognised her. It was one of Yau’s pets. Angel? Yeah, that was it. He had seen her skulking around the past week, and although she had kept her distance from everyone; him, the Marines, the civvies, he had not been able to get her alone. He had wanted to tap that since she had got here. She was nothing special. Bit rough around the edges maybe. But Hispanic, slim, and with tight ass, she was better offerings than most of what was available in this dump. She had been here, what? Over a year, at least. A long time, and she was only human too, after all.

  He followed her from a distance, careful not to step on any of the sleeping civilians who had been forced to opt for the floor. She disappeared around a corner, and he hurried to catch up as he broke into a half-jog, rounding the corner just in time to see her enter the female restroom. He paused, leaning against the wall, pretending he was waiting for someone. It wouldn’t do much good if one of the Marines saw him now. A minute passed, and no one came. Sensing his chance, he pushed open the door, stepping into the restroom and locking the door behind him.

  The lights were marginally brighter, momentarily blinding him as his eyes adjusted. A row of cubicles lined the wall on his side, and a row of sinks lined the other. Angel stood hunched over the middle one, washing her hands.

  “I’ll just be a sec,” she said, locking eyes with him in the mirror and seeming unbothered about his presence. Playing hard to get. He liked that. He took a step towards her.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “This is the ladies’ room, isn’t it?”

  He felt the corner of his smile dip by a hair, but he forced himself to maintain the friendly fa?ade. He couldn’t let her needle him. She was just pushing his buttons. Testing his resolve.

  “If you need to take a piss, just go. You’ve got nothing to hide,” she said with a smirk, turning as she dried her hands on her coveralls. He felt his face flush red with anger, and with a great effort he forced it back down to the pit of his stomach.

  “That’s not why I’m here,” he said, striking a conversational tone as he took another step towards her. Angel leaned back, bracing her hands against the counter as she raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “I can help you,” he said, taking another step.

  “Oh really?” she said with mock intrigue.

  “Yeah,” he said, regaining his swagger. “People like us, we know how this ends. These folks don’t have a chance.” He took one more step forward, bringing them face to face. “But I can protect you,” he said softly.

  “You can protect me?” she said sweetly. Her voice suddenly light, almost girlish, as she looked up at him with big brown eyes.

  “Yeah, baby, I’ll protect you. It’s you and me,” he said as he brushed her hair out of her face with one hand.

  “You can’t even protect yourself,” she snorted.

  Morse straightened and stepped back as a cruel smile formed on Angel’s lips.

  “You can stop embarrassing yourself now,” she spat, all hint of the girlish tone gone in an instant. “Whatever happened to that big South African friend of yours? Now that was a real man,” she mocked, her voice dripping with venom.

  “I’ll show you a real man right now, bitch,” he swore, grabbing her by the collar. A flash of blinding pain paralysed him as Angel brought one swift knee up into his groin, forcing him to double over as the jolt settled into a dull, debilitating throb.

  “Go on. Do something, tough guy,” she hissed as he gritted his teeth. “Better men than you have tried it, and they are all in the ground. I wouldn’t let you fuck me if you were the last man on the planet, and you almost are.”

  “I’ll fucking kill you, you fucking junkie whore,” seethed Morse as he held his groin, waves of pain keeping him doubled over.

  Angel smiled. “I’m already dead, you idiot. I’ve died half a dozen times. You think there’s anything left you can do to me? Neither one of us is getting out of here. But I promise you; you’ll die screaming.”

  “The Marines aren’t always going to be here to protect you,” he spat as he struggled to stand up straight.

  Angel gave a humourless chuckle. “There’s no Marines here right now, dumbass.”

  Defeated, he relented.

  Pushing away as he turned to leave, fumbling with the lock as he struggled to regain some composure.

  “Was it good for you, too?” she called after him as he stormed back to the barracks.

  *

  Sanchez waited until he was back in his office to let out a long, deep sigh. He should never have left. Letting Sloan get the better of him like that was stupid. He sighed again. He couldn’t think straight. That wasn’t good. He was a command officer; he needed to stay sharp. Exhausted, he collapsed into his chair. Every muscle in his body ached. Even his bones ached. They could manage for a few hours without him, he told himself. Sergeant Davis had the night watch, and he was a fine NCO. He closed his eyes as he leaned back, settling into his chair. Yeah, they would manage just fine. He barely had enough time to finish the thought before falling fast asleep.

  *

  He bolted awake to the piercing shrill of the alarm. His eyes quickly adjusting to the flickering red emergency lighting. He was on his feet in a flash even as his joints screamed in protest. Adrenaline instantly erasing all notion of sleep, bursting out into the corridor as pairs of panicked Marines thundered past him. He rushed for the Operations room to find it in chaos as Sergeant Davis barked orders, while rifles and magazines were frantically handed out.

  “Report, Sergeant!” demanded Sanchez.

  “We’ve got a perimeter breach, sir,” replied Davis, who had to shout to be heard over the blaring alarm.

  “Location?”

  “Unknown,” hollered Davis as Heller burst in accompanied by a handful of off-duty Marines.

  “Sergeant Heller, lock and load. I want teams with trackers patrolling the corridors, move! Smartgunners, get yourselves suited up, check for ingress points. You see anything, you light it up. Sergeant Davis, secure the barracks. They’ll be coming for the civilians,” he barked, struggling to catch his breath, “and someone kill that damn alarm.”

  The two sergeants nodded in acknowledgement as Heller and his men donned their armour and primed their weapons. Sanchez accepted a plasma rifle and activated it with a high-pitched metallic ping that he felt more than heard. He had never fired one of these outside of training, but they were far more formidable than a standard M47A pulse rifle. He hated to admit it, but Sloan had come through on his end. But there were not enough to go around. Slipping on a headset, he gripped the mic with his free hand.

  “All units, this is Colonel Sanchez. We have a perimeter breach. Prepare to engage hostiles.”

  “How the hell did they get past the sentries?” shouted a private whose name he could not recall.

  “It doesn’t matter. They’re here now,” said Heller as he slammed home a magazine.

  “Let’s rock n’ roll,” said one of the smartgunners.

  “What’s happening, Colonel?” It was Sloan. Sanchez hadn’t noticed him in the chaos, but somehow, he was never far from it.

  “We’ve got a perimeter breach. Get back to the barracks,” ordered Sanchez.

  “We can help,” said Sloan.

  “No dice,” snapped Sanchez as the alarm died. “Now get back to the barracks, or I’ll have you removed.”

  “Colonel, sir, we have positive contact,” said Private Davenport. His hands shaking as he hunched over the motion tracker, his face lit by its harsh blue-white glow as its constant blip now replaced with a steady, high-pitched beeping. “Fifty metres. It’s definitely inside the perimeter.”

  “Give me position and bearing,” he demanded.

  “I don’t know, sir, I…I mean, I’m not sure. I…” the private stuttered, wiping the sweat from his brow as he struggled to hold the tracker steady.

  “Goddammit, Private. Take a breath,” he growled. Davenport looked from the tracker, to Sanchez, then back again, as if he could not believe his own eyes.

  “Just…tell how many we’re dealing with,” he said, with as much calm as he could muster.

  Davenport gulped, his hands trembling.

  “All of them, sir.”