The sounds of Third Platoon’s desperate defense above filled the dark Metro tunnel as Mauricio worked to put the explosive charges in place on the ceiling. The ebb and flow of small arms fire, muffled and seemingly distant through the thick concrete above, told of the dynamic battle in the streets. Thudding overhead booms shook the ceiling, sending showers of dust and grit onto the soldiers below. Divided into their assault teams, they knelt wherever they could, getting their minds ready for the impending violence.

  Filson didn’t allow himself to watch Mauricio set the explosive charges in place after the first iteration. It was a nerve-wracking, ungainly process. The Maulers formed a kind of robot pyramid—three robots at the bottom, their hands on their knees in a wide stance, elbows interlaced. Two more Maulers stood on top of the three, arms locked. Finally, a robot held Mauricio in one arm while it climbed up his brother Maulers. Once atop the odd humanoid structure, Mauricio set the charges in place using a foaming adhesive. Then his holder climbed down, the soldierbot pyramid disassembled itself, and the group moved to the next location.

  Mauricio was setting six charges in total.

  Three more to go.

  Filson raised his arm in a rally-on-me gesture and checked his watch as his leaders jogged over. Negotiating stagnant puddles and stepping over fallen debris, the motley group assembled around their commander.

  Looking at his bulky Centaurs, faceted Maulers, and lightly armored Lobos, Filson gave them a confident smile.

  “Mauricio will have the charges set, and he’ll be down off his robot jungle gym in a few minutes,” he began. “When we break here, you’ll go make sure your guys are set. That means behind cover and wearing all their protective gear. The overpressure is gonna be sporty. When your team is set, I want confirmation on RaiderNet. Once I have that, I’ll give a thirty-second time hack, then drop the roof. Then execute just like we planned. No improvisation. Maulers lead, followed by Centaurs, followed by Lobos. Stick to your assignments—Maulers exit and immediately attack away from Third Platoon. They’re surrounded, so it should be easy to find PLA to kill. Centaurs exit, get the aerial drones in the fight, designate targets, and join the Maulers.”

  Filson paused, face hardening.

  “I don’t want us to get overextended. Comply with the control lines. No one goes past control line Bravo unless I give the word.” He raised an armored hand and pointed at Merko. “That includes you, Captain.”

  Filson had designated several control lines—a series of concentric circles on the map with Third Platoon’s location in the middle—to control the unit’s footprint during the fight. He made sure they were part of the mission data download for every member of the unit.

  Merko smiled and looked at his boots. He had a habit of getting carried away in firefights. Getting overaggressive and blowing through control lines and other constraints.

  Filson waited until Merko looked back up to meet his gaze.

  “Say it,” he growled.

  “Comply with control lines, sir.”

  Filson lowered his hand and continued.

  “Lobos exit and consolidate on Third Platoon’s position. Find cover, support the Centaurs and Maulers while distributing medical and ammo to Third Platoon. They’re gonna need it.

  “Everyone, no matter what your assignment is, get the hell away from the breaches. The PLA is gonna be pissed. This Metro tunnel is gonna be burned. They may even shell it out of anger immediately. Get away from it and don’t go back.”

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  Filson waited for a nod from everyone, then turned and glanced up at Mauricio. He was putting the last charge in place.

  Looking back at his leaders, Filson asked, “What’s the hard point command?”

  “Granite,” the group said in unison.

  Filson nodded. Each soldier had an assigned fighting position with Third Platoon. Individually plotted by Filson and McGowan, it was the smallest, most defensible perimeter they could devise—the hardest point they could form and hold for the longest time. The mutually supporting positions interlocked like the links of chain mail. Each Centaur, Lobo, and Mauler also had an assigned field of fire locked into their tactical AIs and drawn on their maps. It was also burned into their brains.

  “I won’t call for it unless I have to. But if I do, don’t fiddle-fuck around. Fall back to your assigned position. That fucking second.”

  Another overhead boom reverberated through the tunnel. The assembled soldiers shielded their eyes as grit showered them. Filson waved his hand to disperse the powdered concrete in the air.

  “This one is going to be a chaotic hell. But you all know my intent—consolidate on Third Platoon and harden their position while killing as many enemy as possible.” Filson spoke precisely, making eye contact with each subordinate one by one. “The chaos will be our ally. Use it. Seize the initiative. Maintain it and leverage it until the very last second. Don’t let them catch their breath. Don’t let them get their bearings. Be decisive. Be ferocious. Be merciless. If we all do that, as a team, this will work.”

  Another boom and rip of automatic weapons fire sounded above. Filson glanced up and then back at his leaders. He worked his jaw as a flash of emotion crossed his face.

  “Those fuckers have been beating up on Third Platoon and the Lobos for a while.” He pointed up at the streets of Santiago above them. “We’ve lost good men. American and Chilean. When I blow the roof, leap from the ground like demons unleashed. It’s the enemy’s turn to die.”

  The team nodded, almost panting with anticipation. They were ready to get on with it.

  “That’s it, Major,” Mauricio called as the Mauler holding him climbed down the robot pyramid and set his feet on the ground. “All charges set.”

  “Very good.” Filson looked back at the older Chilean lieutenant, giving him a thumbs-up. “Everyone, get set.”

  The group shared a few glances, handshakes, and wishes of good luck before turning back to their units in the shadows.

  “Suave,” Filson called to the Chilean captain. “Be sure your guys have their protective gear on. Can’t afford to lose anyone to the overpressure.”

  “Roger that,” Paredes said, taking a step toward Filson. “My squad leaders will be triple-checking.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  Seeing that everyone but Hatch had walked away, Paredes took another step toward Filson. “And the exfil?”

  “I told you guys. We’re outta commo down here. I expect to get the final details when we get above ground.”

  “So, you feel good about it, then?”

  “Yes.” Filson nodded, without making eye contact. “They’ll get us out. One way or the other.”

  “Good. I’ll see you above ground, Don.”

  Filson nodded and watched him walk away before turning to Hatch. He sighed heavily as he looked at the soldierbot with tired eyes. Hatch looked back at him, his dented metal face expressionless.

  “I sure as hell hope Akande gets an exfil together.” Filson chuckled ruefully. “If he doesn’t, you’re gonna wish I left you and your guys in those shipping containers.”

  “No, sir. We are soldierbots. We belong in battle. Not in shipping containers.”

  Surprised, Filson put his hands on his hips and regarded the weathered robot.

  “Raiders set,” Merko said over the radio.

  Filson broke squelch twice to acknowledge receipt without taking his eyes off Hatch.

  “Lobos set,” Paredes transmitted.

  Filson keyed his mic twice.

  “Maulers set, sir,” Hatch said, lifting his rifle.

  Filson looked at his watch and called, “Thirty seconds,” over RaiderNet.

  He donned his armored helmet as he hurried to the concrete column he was sheltering behind, Hatch on his heels. The familiar mechanical ratcheting noise filled his ears as his helmet sealed itself to his armored battlesuit. A tactical map of the streets above and health statuses of his leaders glimmered to life on his heads-up display. He noted his ammo counters signaling full magazines and called up a green triangle icon to designate center mass of Third Platoon’s location.

  He lay down behind the large concrete column, helmet toward the breach points. Hatch lay down next to him.

  The last seconds ticked down on his tactical display’s clock.

  It was time.

  He sent the detonate command.