“Apache Zero Three, this is Raider Zero Six. Requesting SitRep, over.” Kneeling next to the old truck as bits of Beast smoked around him, Filson scanned the deluge of encrypted intel bursts on his HUD as he waited for the Battalion Operations Officer to reply.

  What the hell is going on?

  Anxiety tightened his chest, and he glanced up at Hatch. Crouching low, weapon up, the Mauler swiveled almost rhythmically back and forth, sweeping the area.

  Filson’s eyes narrowed in his helmet.

  What is Reeves doing? Shouldn’t take this long to respond.

  “Apache Zero Three, this is Raider Zero Six. Requesting SitRep, over.”

  More silence.

  I don’t like this.

  “Apache Zero Three, this is Raider Zero—”

  “Raider. Apache Three. Be advised—everything went batshit since you went underground. PLA are crossing the Maipo across a wide front. It’s about to get bloody between the rivers. And across all of Santiago if we can’t stop them.”

  Filson winced. That would explain the sea of red threat icons on my map.

  “Understood, Apache,” Filson said. “What is the status of our exfil?”

  Silence extended over the radio. Filson fidgeted.

  Not good.

  “Apache, you can’t just leave us hanging out here.”

  “Not saying that, Raider. We’re gonna get you guys out. I was trying to see if I could find Apache Six. The TOC is nuts right now. He has been working your issue with Eagle Six. Eagle is running the whole fight now, controlling all air, artillery, and space assets. Everything.”

  Filson exhaled through pursed lips. Eagle Six was General Havron’s call sign. If he was running the fight, the stakes were much higher than the fate of the beleaguered Raiders.

  “Also, be advised, Raider. We are jumping the TOC.”

  Filson grimaced. Jumping the Tactical Operations Center meant moving the headquarters, operations teams, and capabilities. It disrupted the unit’s ability to fight and thus was only done in a deliberate and extensively planned manner during a lull in operations. Or when things went to shit and the battalion’s TOC was in jeopardy, in which case it was a jump-through-your-ass scramble that rendered a headquarters damn near worthless.

  Things are worse than I thought.

  Filson glanced reflexively up at Hatch. The scarred, wedge-shaped head swiveled to look down on him, impassive, then looked back up to scan the building.

  “Apache, you got anything for me if we make a run for friendly lines? Air support? Artillery? Drone sorties? Anything?” Filson tried not to let his anxiety seep into his voice.

  More silence. A muffled scraping noise came across the radio, as if someone was dragging the handset through the mud. When Reeves finally came back, he spoke in a clipped, rapid voice.

  “We got nothing, Raider. Intel says PLA counter-battery and hypersonic spectrums just lit up, and the Chinese satellite response net just went hot. All of our artillery is moving, and Space Command is defensively adjusting orbits. Anything that can put steel downrange is being spent on the PLA main effort. Got nothing for you. No suppressive fires. No air support. No nothing. You are on your own.”

  Filson cursed under his breath. He could feel it. The situational boundaries had hardened. He could hear it in Reeves’ resigned voice as well. They’d both seen it too many times. Bemoaned it over shots of contraband whiskey: Troops fight over ground. They’re attacked by air. Aircraft are shot down by air defense weapons. AD is suppressed by SEAD fires. SEAD fires are destroyed by anti-spectrum counter-battery systems. Counter-battery systems get neutralized by hypersonic area-denial weapons. Hypersonic launch sites get dealt with by satellite-based fire detection and response systems. Orbital weapons get taken out by anti-satellite systems… and on and on. No matter how high the architects of war climb the technology ladder, ultimately the only constant is, and always will be, the fight on the ground. The grunts. Killing each other. Rifle. Bayonet. Bare hands. The ratcheting chess match of mutually cancelling technologies ends up only isolating that immutable brutality more completely. Locking the conditions in their age-old state. Mano a mano. Now, sometimes, Mano a robot. Either way. It was hell.

  “I’m sorry, Raider. I wish I had better news. Will keep working the exfil. You have my word. Have to drop. Apache Three, out.”

  Shit.

  Filson pushed the panic out of his mind.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Just do the next right thing. Then the next. Then the next. Akande and Reeves won’t leave us hanging. Just have to stay alive until they work it out.

  Filson scanned the tactical map on his HUD. Fortunately, the PLA offensive had not hit them yet. But it would soon.

  Anger surged in Filson as he zoomed into the southern tip of their perimeter. Damn Merko still too far out!

  The captain had made some progress, but was still well forward of Bravo.

  And I need to get everyone back to Alpha ASAP! The anger at Merko gave way to concern, then rage at the situation.

  “Goddammit!” Filson stood and punched the truck, startling Hatch. The soldierbot turned to look at Filson.

  Filson met the soldierbot’s multi-sensored gaze. For an instant, he felt the urge to share the burden of command. To tell a comrade how much it sucked. If he delayed his order to fall back, he would jeopardize the whole unit. If he gave the order, he isolated Merko further.

  Hatch looked back at him impassively, and the feeling was gone.

  Filson knew the right thing. And hated it.

  Ike, summarize current situation. Include all relevant.

  “Done, sir.”

  Filson scanned it quickly.

  Send to all friendlies this net.

  “Sent, sir.”

  “This is Raider Zero Six,” Filson transmitted on the RaiderNet. “All elements fall back to Control Line Alpha. I repeat. Get your ass back to Alpha.”

  Ike, also send that order via text burst.

  “Done, sir.”

  Okay. Now give me guidance to Lobo Six.

  Filson stood as symbology flared to life on his HUD. As he expected, the route to Paredes was going to take him across a hundred meters of open street.

  “Lobo Six, Raider Six. I’m coming your way.”

  A quick scan of nearby aerial drone POVs didn’t turn up any obvious threats. Things inside their perimeter were a little quieter now. Still, with a thought, Filson cycled through the statuses of his onboard countermeasures.

  Satisfied, he gestured at Hatch and then turned to pick up the course line. Two countermeasure grenades—one smoke, one chaff—ejected from the back of his battlesuit. Filson hesitated for a few seconds as dense smoke and radar-confusing metallized fibers engulfed him and Hatch.

  Then he ran like hell.

  The powerful leg actuators of Filson’s battlesuit propelled him across the open space at thirty miles per hour. A few potshots hit the street near his churning armored boots, kicking up dust and chunks of road, and earning the shooter a burst of minigun fire from the Lobos’ position. Filson popped two more grenades for good measure.

  Filson decelerated as he passed between Maulers and Lobos in fighting positions behind rubble and burned-out cars, Hatch matching his pace. Stepping through a hole in the wall, they entered the building where Third Platoon was hunkered down. Captain Paredes met them inside.

  Filson removed his armored helmet. Hatch stayed a step behind him.

  “Quite a cheerful SitRep you sent,” Paredes said without smiling.

  “Yeah. It made my day to send it.”

  “I suppose our exfil is cancelled, then?”

  “No. Not yet. That’s why I’m here. I want to see what kind of wounded situation we are dealing with. We need to be ready to move when it comes.”

  Paredes nodded grimly.

  “Come see for yourself.”

  Paredes led Filson down the hallway of the demolished school. Dimly lit by small LED lights the Lobos carried with them, bent and twisted metal lockers lined the passageway like broken tombstones. Classroom doors either hung listlessly on their hinges or lay on the ground, their large windows shattered. The floor was filthy, and the cracked tiles crunched under the heavy metal feet of Filson and Hatch.

  At the end of the hallway, they stepped into a classroom. All the tables and chairs had been pushed to one side to make room for the wounded soldiers of Third Platoon and the Lobos.

  A Centaur platoon at full strength comprised fourteen Centaurs. Filson counted eight in the classroom. Five were gravely wounded but still breathing, their battlesuits in various states of disassembly to allow for IVs and tourniquets. Three were dead, their armor punctured and incomplete, faces covered by whatever their comrades could find. Blood pooled on the dirty floor beneath them.

  Filson knew Third Platoon had taken casualties. Seeing them in person hit harder than telemetry feeds served up by Ike.

  There were a dozen Lobos there, also. All but one were dead. Lacking the armor of a Centaur, hits tended to kill them rather than wound.

  A medic worked the room, checking IVs and administering pain meds.

  Filson rubbed his eyes. It was going to be hard to move quickly when the time came.

  “These are just the critical ones,” Paredes said. “The rest of Third is wounded but able to fight. Same with the Lobos.”

  “Where’s LT Wagner?”

  “He is manning a gun position on the third floor. He is a tough kid.”

  Filson nodded. “I want—”

  “Raider Zero Six, this is Apache Six, over!” Commander Akande’s urgent voice sounded over Filson’s battlesuit speakers. Filson moved quickly back into the hallway. Hatch followed, Paredes right behind.

  “This is Raider. Go, Apache.” Filson made eye contact with Paredes, who leaned closer.

  “Just got off with Eagle Six. You’re stuck for now. No exfil possible.”

  Paredes’ head sank, and he closed his eyes. Filson nodded once. He was not surprised.

  “Will keep working it, Raider,” Akande added. “But expect to be on your own for at least twenty-four hours.”

  Filson looked down at his boots to hide his reaction from Paredes and Hatch.

  Twenty-fucking-four hours? We’re not gonna last one.

  He tried to think of something. Some way out of the fix he had dragged the Raiders, Lobos, and Maulers into.

  “And I’m afraid you’ve got another problem now, Raider.”

  Paredes and Filson’s heads snapped up and they locked eyes.

  “Send it, Apache.”

  “PLA has launched several armored columns across the Maipo. Multiple indications, including sat imagery. One is headed your way. At least a battalion’s worth.”

  Filson’s pulse quickened. Paredes rubbed the back of his neck.

  “You got ten minutes, Raider. Fifteen max.” Akande’s voice was somber. Apologetic.

  “Roger that, Apache. Appreciate the heads-up.”

  “Give ‘em hell, Don.”

  “We will. Filson out.”

  Filson yanked his helmet on to access his HUD. It ratcheted itself secure as he zoomed and panned the map. AegisNet had already picked it up. He winced at the sight.

  Fuck me.

  A huge cluster of red triangles was barreling up from the south. Tanks.

  Paredes stared at Filson, waiting for orders. Hatch stood behind the Chilean, rifle cradled in his metal arms.

  Filson scanned his unit’s footprint on the map. Most were already back behind Control Line Alpha. But Merko’s team was still way too far out. Otherwise, the perimeter looked tight. It would have been plenty strong enough to hold out for exfil.

  To take on a PLA armor column, though?

  Not a chance.