The modules underneath the second flight of Eurocorps ships look different from the troop haulers, less tall but slightly wider, and I have an idea what’s inside even before they have lowered their ramps. I hear the whining of powerful turbines over the din of the drop-ship engines, and an armored vehicle rolls out of the cargo module of the nearest drop ship and makes a hard left turn. It’s a six-wheeled vehicle, smaller than our mules, but no less efficient looking. The tires are big, knobby, honeycomb, run-flat units that look like they’re made for deep snow. As I watch, the vehicle’s driver turns on the exterior lights, which are blinding enough at this range to make my helmet shut its visor and turn on the eye-protection filter. A gun mount unfolds itself from its transport position on the mule’s roof and snaps into place. It’s a mean-looking three-barreled rotary cannon that’s half the length of its host vehicle. The other three drop ships discharge their own mules one by one before roaring back into the sky. The platoon of cannon-armed mules rolls up the landing pad to the north. Then two swing to the west, and the other pair to the east, cannons swiveling on their roofs as the sensor packages on the mules look for targets in the frigid storm.
“We’ll meet up with our other platoons at the ops center and do a sweep south,” I tell the Danish lieutenant, who nods and turns around to follow his troops, who have formed up into squads and are trotting up the landing pad in the tracks left in the snow by the Eurocorps mules.
“Actual, One-Five Actual,” I send to the company commander. “The Euros are on the ground. They brought armor and are sweeping the west and east approaches. Request permission to join Fourth Platoon and set up a perimeter to the south with First and Fourth.”
“One-Five Actual, go ahead. We’re coming topside, too. Civvies and wing-wipers are staying down here in the shelter until we know we are clear. Meet up at the southwest corner of the ops center in five.”
“On the way,” I reply. Then I switch back to my platoon channel. “Sarge, we are heading for the ops center to link up with Fourth Platoon. Let’s move it out.”
We leave the shelter of the hangar and venture back out onto the landing pad. As we walk toward the ops center, a hundred meters to our south, we pass the massive body of the dead Lanky our drop-ship pilot killed. I notice that most of the troopers alter their paths a little to increase the space between themselves and the Lanky, which looks menacing even in death. The massive head is turned in our direction, and even though Lankies have no eyes, it feels like it’s studying us as we pass by. The toothless mouth is slightly ajar. Once again the shape of the skull and the way the lower and upper jaws of the Lanky come together in a vaguely birdlike fashion remind me a little of Earth dinosaurs. The mouth is a good three or four meters wide, and I briefly wonder what it would feel like if one of these things scooped me up and decided to test the hardness of my armor with the edges of those massive jaws. Then I shake the thought off and concentrate on my TacLink screen again.
South of the ops center, we see evidence of Lanky activity everywhere. There are deep footprints left by huge three-toed feet, which even the steadily falling heavy snow hasn’t filled in yet. The auxiliary refueling station at the south end of the airfield is smashed to rubble, twisted metal strewn over half an acre. But the creatures who wrecked the base so thoroughly are nowhere to be seen. Their footprints disappear in the white mess to our south and east, and I don’t have the sense of adventure to want to track them down on foot and maybe stumble into an ambush a few kilometers from the nearest hard cover. Thankfully, the HD captain in charge of the company shares my assessment.
“No point chasing after them on foot,” he says. “Let the Euros roll their armor. They can cover ground much more quickly anyway. Secure the perimeter for the reinforcements and wait until this goddamn shit weather clears.”
“You heard the man,” the platoon sergeant sends to the squads, obvious relief in his voice. “Back to the ops center, people. And stay sharp, in case they decide to come back and finish the job.”
An hour later, the joint base is as busy as it probably hasn’t been in years. Our HD company and the Euros are no longer the only boots on the ground. Three more companies have joined us from the NAC mainland—two HD and one SI—and half an armored Eurocorps battalion is now widening the perimeter around the wrecked base. The storm has subsided to merely annoying levels, and visibility is now a hundred meters or more. The drop ships are still flying around on instruments only. By coincidence or cunning, the Lankies picked the perfect time and weather to attack the base while we couldn’t make use of our sensors or offensive air power.
“We are heading back for showers and chow as soon as the next HD company gets here to relieve us,” the captain announces to the platoon leaders. We are keeping an eye on the base’s southern perimeter, and one of our platoons is picking through the rubble of the damaged ops center with what’s left of the garrison platoon to make sure we didn’t overlook any injured or trapped survivors.
I relay the information to my platoon, where it is received with unanimous relief. The wind has slacked off, the storm is dying down, but the outside air temperature is still minus thirty degrees, and the heaters in our suits are working overtime. I always knew the Lankies were incredibly resilient, but if they were able to survive this environment without support for months, they’re even hardier than we thought.
A few minutes later, I hear the captain’s voice again, this time on a private channel.
“Lieutenant Grayson, you’re pod-qualified, right? You’ve fought these things before?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply. “Three hundred drops, give or take.”
“The Euros just found something in the ice twenty klicks north. They’re asking for our SI company. I’m going to send Lieutenant Thiede your way to take over First Platoon. Meet up with the SI company at the drop-ship pad in five, and report to their CO.”
“Copy that, sir,” I send back, surprised. “On my way.”
I pass the news on to the platoon sergeant and check my gear. Then I trot back toward the ops center and the landing pad beyond it. Some of my platoon’s troopers exchange curious looks.
The disappointment I feel at the postponed return to a hot shower and warm food is overshadowed by the new dread in the pit of my stomach. What the hell did the Euros stumble across in the ice that made them call for all the Spaceborne Infantry and podheads in the area?
But as I slog my way through the snow that reaches almost up to my knees, I find that I have a pretty good idea.
Next time I’m out for a morning run, I’m leaving the PDP at home by accident, I decide on the spot.
CHAPTER 3
HUNTING A BEAR IN WINTER
Twenty kilometers to the north of Thule base, the scene looks like some sort of international military jamboree. There are drop ships from the NAC’s Fleet Arm and Homeworld Defense, Danish Eurocorps ships and armored vehicles, and personnel in battle armor with at least five different camouflage patterns. The airspace is almost as crowded as the ground. When I step off the ramp of the drop ship with the SI platoon, there are several flights of NAC and Eurocorps drop ships circling overhead, all with air-to-ground ordnance visible on the external racks. The weather up here is less of a mess than the storm around Joint Base Thule. The clouds overhead are the color of molten metal, but it’s not snowing, and I can see further than my voice will carry.