IMC Chapter 7

Back into the ice bucket. If I thought laying in a zip-pod overnight was cold, it was nothing compared to stepping off the back of that Goblin dropship. The IMS Havoc made me soft to the snow with the very little time that I spent in orbit. Travis rubbed his arms as we watched the dropship named the Goblin King take off into the blustery, grey sky.

"Good luck out there boys," the pilot said into the coms, "have fun studying this craphole!"

We were Crows. We studied, not commit acts of violence while on crucial reconnaissance missions. I never realized how much IMC personnel downgraded each other. I suppose since I have always been a pilot people stepped aside. But Travis and I had hidden our weapons and ordnance in a duffle bag. They dropped us off with two snowmobiles but I had to coerce the mechanic to lend us at least that little bit of equipment. He just sat there on his fat ass with a toothpick in his gums. He hardly deigned to move at all despite all my pleading. I was this close to putting my pistol against his temple and making him watch as I cut off his fingers. But then again, that's an IMC pilot procedure in attaining needed equipment.

But like I said, as a pilot, everyone gave me space and no one ever questioned what I needed. Now that my 40th Squadron patch was gone, it was like I was some undisciplined civvie that everyone felt the ultimate need to crap on.

At least back on the snowy planet no one was here to hassle me. Of course, there was Travis "Maverick" Mercury here to do that.

"Come on and let's get on these snowmobiles and get out of this wind. I can't believe you even stayed the night down here in this shit weather." Travis said.

I hefted our duffle bag onto the snowmobile. It was supposed to for geological surveying equipment and atmosphere readers. Instead, it was loaded down with enough satchel charges to detach California (whatever that was, it was just a saying in the IMC), and small jars of jam. They weren't the jam for bread. Small metal capsules about the size of a hand grenade they magnetized to walls and wiring. They had to be placed almost directly on the wiring of radar and communication but if hidden well enough, the techs would not be able to find that little jar of jam for weeks. Imagine an entire army not being able to communicate for a week. Of course, the IMC usually dropped on top of them and blew up everything two days before the week was out.

Our snowmobiles buzzed over the desolate landscape. A flurry made everything dark so I had to follow the tail lights of Maverick's snowmobile through endless trees and hills.

Two hours later we arrived four miles from the coal factory. We parked the snowmobiles beneath the expansive arms of an ancient tree. Maverick held open a duffle bag for himself and we split the satchel charges and jars of jam. As he was screwing the black silencer barrel onto his C.A.R. SMG he said, "You know Autto, I don't think any of us crows have gone on a mission without getting a nickname. Maybe you just aren't meant to live that long."

For a young guy, he sure has a sharp tongue. Hopefully he doesn't have a dull mind; he was going to be watching my back. "Back in the 40th, we never used codenames, we just used last names."

Maverick rested on his gun for a moment. He seemed to be measuring me up. A fighter is prone to doing that. He said, "Goose? I could call you Goose. But that doesn't sound exactly right. Hmmm."

His face was obscured by goggles and a scarf but I could tell that it as twisted in consternation. While he grumbled different names to himself I stepped to the ridge we stopped upon. In the distance below was the coal refinery. It sat in the snow like a spider crouched in a hole. The tendrils and pipes of the refinery were its legs and the smoke billowing from it was its anger. Smoke? That meant that it was no longer abandoned, but we wouldn't know if they were Militia forces until we got down there.

I turned and Maverick's finger went into the air in the quintessential pose of "Eureka!"

"I got it! Your name is Krout!"

I stared back at him blankly.

"Oh don't give me that stupid look. Man, your German accent is so thick it's a wonder that anybody can understand you. You also shave your head bald as the day your mum gave you that awful name. What is the color of your hair anyways? Blonde?"

"It's brown," I said. I remembered receiving some comments about the way I spoke during Basic training but it had been so long since anybody pointed it out that I figured my accent had gone away. "It's actually a very dark brown," I added to clarify.

Maverick waved that away as irrelevant. "Alright Krout, you are now officially a part of the crows now. Now as I am the ranking senior over you, you are going to set up our transmitter up on that cliff."

"I thought the crows dissolved ranks? As long as we are on this mission both you and I are equal."

He stepped up and his clouded breath shot from above his scarf. "Listen, I don't think you've ever done a mission like this. You heard Reynoso back on ship, no support. No Titans, no nothing. We make one false move then our goose is cooked. Have you noticed we only got five clips for our SMG's? That's it, nothing more. When we are out, we are out and then the Militia has us. Now I'm going to put it nicely once more before I put my foot right up your ass. Go up on that cliff up there and set up the transmitter. Everything we report is directly linked to Sergeant Reynoso and if it's anything good, right to Commander Blisk."

I would have loved to cuff the short kid. But he was right about this mission. I had never served in anything that wasn't all out mayhem. I was used to Titans, fighter jets overhead, incoming artillery, and the whole nine yards. This was ghost territory. I was finally going to experience the "special" of my special forces title.

The cliff wasn't really that far up. I climbed it easily enough even without the aid of a jumpkit. I came back down and Maverick pressed the comm on his ear. "Do you read me Sergeant?"

"I read you Maverick. Are you at the refinery?" Reynoso's voice echoed in both of our comms.

"Yes ma'am. One click out. Krout and I are about to embark."

"Autto is Krout? Noted. Proceed with mission. Gather relevant information to the location of Graves and Militia troop movements. Sabotage targets of high importance. Reynoso out."

We shouldered the duffle bags and went to the ridge looking down on the coal factory. I pointed out to Maverick that smoke indicated that it was alive, not abandoned.

"Right, let's head down and see if there is a back entrance."

"Or," I grabbed his arm and pointed with my R-97 at the mountains above the refinery. "We can use our jumpkits to access those rocks above and come down onto the roof. There's bound to be entry points from there with less security and sensors."

"Not bad Krout."

"A man with a G2A4, has to have good distance and angle on his target, he cannot afford to run in and hold the trigger down. If we take through the woods there at the base of the refinery we could be riddled with sentry guns or snipers."

"That's assuming that this is even a Militia operation to begin with. These sites are just picked out from satellite images that Blisk filched when Spyglass wasn't looking. But I still like your idea. I need to stretch my legs some."

Using jumpkit for parkour is a little more challenging with a large load on your back. The difference is like swimming naked as opposed to swimming in a police officer's riot gear. At first we took separate paths to jump and run across the expanse of the snowy mountain, but I was getting slowed down with improper judgements of distance and the weight on my back. But Maverick proved to be an impeccable parkour runner. I have seen few IMC pilots who could handle the terrain like he did. Every flex of his muscle against the rock propelled him faster and farther and farther ahead. Soon I had to follow his line just to keep up.

Maverick stuck his dataknife into the rock and hung from a sheer cliff. I joined him and put my knife in as well. We hung for a few moments to gather our breaths.

"Alright," he said, "remember to land soft. Let's find an entry point and stay out of the open."

We let go.

Our bodies fell from half a mile above the roof of the refinery. Yet we landed as softly as the snow. Reverse gravity sensors in our pilot boots deadened our land so we did not snap every bone in our lower body from falling that far. The lack of burn suits were the only reason pilots could not be dropped through the atmosphere and survive the landing.

We had our guns ready and silently stepped around the pipes on the roof. Black smoke billowed out of the stacks and pilfered the air with putrid, overdone barbecue smell. We located the door to the roof and luckily it was unlocked. Whoever was here now had not been upstairs much. That gave me the feeling more that Militia personnel were under our feet. Before we left the outside, Maverick stuck two satchel charges at the base of a large smoke stack. Topple it like a tree. While he set those up I glanced over the edge of the roof.

Down in the snow were several vehicles moving equipment around. Men were using shovels to uncover ancient train tracks that went out into the wilderness. Everything looked like a normal coal operation until I saw the wind open a flap of one of the trucks. An unmistakable plasma railgun. Here be Titans.

I pointed it out to Maverick and he gave me the thumbs up.

We descended into the building and out of the cold. I pulled back my hood and adjusted the night vision on my helmet's visor. Parts of the roof had caved in and snow fell from the sunlight coming in. Everywhere else on the floor was water. The new activity had melted a lot of the snow that had once buried this place in a mountainside tomb.

Two floors down, we came across our first contact. Two Militia grunts had a flashlight and were looking through waterlogged files.

"I can't believe we get sent on this bullshit to find building files. Where in the hell are we supposed to find the blueprints to this drenched place?" One of the grunts continued to complain. "Hell, this place doesn't even have warm showers yet where we are."

"Quiet!" the other one whispered. "I think I heard something."

"Probably Gunk Rats. God knows those things are probably crawling all over the place around here. Bring that light back over here, I can't see anything."

Silent bullets went through their heads simultaneously and the shadows caught their bodies before they hit the floor. The darkness swallowed the two grunts. A glove came down and picked up two, warm pistol casings and carefully clicked off the flashlight.

After I carefully lifted the grate I pulled out the last satchel charge. I reached down and pasted the bag chock full of plastic explosives on the roof of a garage. Below me were five Stryder Titans, four Atlases, and three Ogres with standard Militia paint schemes. One Militia pilot was down in the garage with six satchel charges above her head and was testing out the movements of her Stryder. I didn't see the benefit of interrupting her then.

I put the grate back quietly as I could and the comm came alive in my ear. "Krout, come in"

"Copy Maverick."

"Get back to my position ASAP. We hit the jackpot sir."

He sounded excited so I hurried as much as I could without making a lot of noise and drawing attention. I followed my track of turns through the vents. At each corner that I turned I would mark it with a special marker that glowed on my night vision. I then followed the marks that Maverick had made. I found him looking through an air vent and he had a big grin on his face and an empty duffle bag. He pointed at the dim light coming through the slits but was careful not to allow any of the light touch him. I craned my neck around and saw through the legs of a computer chair the former Vice Admiral of the IMC. Marcus Graves

He looked thirty years older than when I last saw him on screen. His hair had greyed significantly and the crow's feet around his eyes had deepened to caverns. His dark face looked like an ammunition bag that had been left out and forgotten. Yet that bag was loaded down with countless military engagements and an old school style of war that included sweat, blood, and dirt.

Graves stood next to one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. She had jet black hair done up in a red bandana. Even though she was in a parka, I could still see she had the body of a pilot, jaunty and quick. I then recognized her as one of the fifty faces all IMC personnel had to memorize, the fifty most dangerous Militia personnel at large. Her name was Sarah and she was the commander of the Marauder Corps. She had singlehandedly brought down the towers at Airbase Sierra, an unpleasant defeat that I had been a part of.

Maverick unfolded a tiny, audible transmitter and placed it in front of him. I switched on the camera feed on my helmet. We were transmitting everything in the room to Sergeant Reynoso live if she wasn't busy getting killed on her mission. Except the mouths would move before the words came on the feed—like watching an old, foreign film. Yet both of us knew that this would be directly transferred to Commander Blisk.

Sarah pointed at the table we could not see and she said, "IMC forces cut us off here before we could find what we were looking for. They came with a surprisingly large fleet and shipment of pilots."

Graves rubbed his chin and replied, "The IMC has its fingers in every database and communication device in the entire known Frontier. The way that we are increasing our ranks adds the unavoidable which is that we can't slip around unnoticed by being small. Spyglass and Blisk knows I am on this planet. And if there is anything they dislike, it's a turn cloak like me."

Sarah put her hand on his shoulder, as if consoling a worrying old father. "Marcus, you did the right thing."

It seemed like he took comfort in her touch, I knew I would. "But what they don't have here is a fleet," Graves continued. "Spyglass knows he can't spare many resources to pursue a vendetta when much more valuable company assets are in danger. The 1st Militia Fleet is laying siege to Waystation Sandtrap and Colonial Dig Site. We should have those locations under our control before the week is out."

"Which makes me wonder sir, why is Bish there and I'm here? Isn't what we are doing here a technological venture?"

Graves looked at her with narrow eyes. I bet that when he was commander of the IMC nobody ever questioned his moves. Either the Militia was still suspicious of his motives or they were just a damned foolish democracy around here.

Graves cleared his throat, "Bish would get too involved with what we are dealing with. It has a tendency to suck a man in. I can't really explain how or why, but I have seen it before."

"It'll suck in a man, but not a woman? I see how it is. Then you better be on guard, sir."

The woman put her finger on the comm on her ear and stepped away from view while Graves continued to look gravely at the table.

"Sir!" she said out of sight. "Scouts have found two snowmobiles parked on our perimeter. They are IMC manufactures."

Maverick and I took quick, sidelong glances at each other and held our breaths.

Graves turned his head away from the vent. "The IMC manufactures everything. Half the equipment here is salvaged from them. So what of it? Where do their tracks lead? Snowmobiles need drivers."

"The foot prints have been covered up with the snowfall. But they have also found some really old equipment on the cliff just above. They think it may be a transmitter of some sort."

Graves stood up straight and his fists clenched. "Destroy it immediately. Mobilize all grunt companies. I don't want any our Spectres online. Not yet. I want all pilots on combat alert. Get Henderson to sweep this place. I want every nook and cranny of this place doused with light."

"Ummm, sir, do you mean Vines? Henderson is the officer's cook."

"Yes, yes, Vines—the one with the limp."

I looked over at Maverick as he folded up the auditory receptor and I was just about to click off the visual feed on my helmet when Commander Blisk's voice spoke into our ear comms. "Gents, absolutely nothing is to happen to Graves." The line then went quiet.

Both of us took out our remote detonators. I set my remote to detonate all of my satchel charges. Maverick set all of his to arm except for the two on the smoke stack. Thousands of tons of cement tumbling down wherever was never a good thing. I'm glad the kid Travis wasn't dumb. He held up three fingers and silently folded them down one by one. When he held a fist, we both pressed the remote triggers.

The entire building shuttered and the explosions were deafening.

"Sir!" Sarah shouted above the alert sirens, "fires reported in armory D and B. Garage 4 is completely offline, no readings. We have a major breach sir."

Graves moved like a commander, swift, and undeterred by the chaos descending upon his army. "Sarah, get grunt company delta and sigma at the front gates. Mobilize the titans and have the pilots ready up right now. I want fire teams in the armory to suppress the fire from spreading. All mechanics are to salvage what they can from the damaged garage. Not much is probably left of it. Contact the MS Belmont and have dropships ready at sector two-niner."

We could only see Graves. He turned back to the table and tapped his finger on it. He jerked his head up to add to the orders, "I want scanner sweeps of this floor and two squads on the deck."

Maverick and I were shuffling out through the vents when the last words muttered from Graves were, "this seems to have Blisk's touch to it—playing his own hand. What else have you got old friend . . .?"

We shuffled through the vents and heard the tromp of boots running above and below us. As we removed the last plate to get out of the vents, Maverick muttered, "Damn bro, how did he get onto us so quick?"

"That doesn't matter now. We need to get out of here."

"Agreed, let's got back up the way we came and see if we can hide on the mountainside."

"Hold on, you mean to tell me there is no recovery? We have to wait with those titans coming after us?"

"Why do you think I'm about to shit my pants right now? Nothing in the Crows is easy man."

Maverick pulled back the action on his C.A.R. and ran into the halls expecting me to follow. I said a quick prayer to any god that might be listening before I took off with my R-97 Compact after him. We raced through the red flashing halls until we came into the main refinery area by a suspended catwalk. Large melting pots and tremendous engines sat dormant as men and women of war swarmed around them.

A shout came from below, they noticed our grey jackets and suddenly our world erupted into sparks and the deafening sound of bullets. It was a good thing that Militia grunts can't shoot for garbage. We were completely expended on explosives; they had all been detonated except for the two on the smoke stack.

Maverick leaned over the edge and returned a burst as he kept running. I leaned over but all my experience told me to aim carefully. I finally found the closest grunt and pulled the trigger. The sub-machine gun sprayed bullets all over the place and the only damage it did to the poor soldier was submerge him in sparks. I continued running and that was as deadly I was with that gun. I couldn't believe that I had used that same gun for so long and now it was as alien in my hands as a Spectre with a baby, I just didn't know what to do with it. While Maverick killed soldiers with his C.A.R., I just kept everybody's heads down. And I mean everyone with that kind of bullet hose.

We dove into a suspended office to change our clips. A grenade crashed through the window. I picked it up, prayed it wouldn't detonate and tossed dropped back through. The explosion rattled my teeth and the screams of grunts were drowned out. Bullets flew through the walls and ripped the stacks of moldy papers. The place was becoming a piece of Swiss cheese very quickly. I looked at the gun in my hands and rage made me throw the thing across the room. I reached into my duffle bag.

Maverick fired a quick burst and ducked when a sniper bullet slammed into the ceiling. "What the—? I told you to leave that gun behind!"

"I know, but I cannot leave her behind. Just watch this."

This may have been famous last words but the world suddenly seemed right when I turned to place my G2A4 Rifle over cover with ten notches on the stock. The trick is to aim slowly in a hurry. Keep both eyes open. Squeeze the trigger softly.

Every shot connected with a mortal wound through the chest or nasal cavity. Maverick leaned over the shattered window and saw the six new corpses. "Damn, Krout, not bad! Last time I'll tell you off about that—."

A stray bullet ripped through floor and blood spurted from the top of his boot. He yelped but just leaned back.

"You okay?"

"Yeah I'm fine," rage seemed to be boiling in his face. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

With that we raced out of the office and the bullets tagged at our heels. We wall ran to pick up speed and we aimed to reach the highest catwalk up to the roof. Maverick made it.

I did not.

The wall exploded underneath my feet and sent me tumbling through the air. An Atlas Titan blew through the debris and was looking for a particular IMC pilot to crush in its fist. My first reaction was to hit the cloak. I disappeared with the flying debris but missed the next catwalk by the length of a fingertip. I did not dare fire my jumpkit. The Atlas would get me. I continued to tumble through the air and landed on the second floor ledge. Maverick was up on the seventh floor. The grunts all around me continued to fire at the last place they had seen him. He must have activated his cloak as well. I jumped right to action to weave through the column of soldiers and careful not to brush any of them. The Titan could not see me and neither could the grunts; hopefully there wasn't a pilot in the room. A glance over filled me with more dread. The Atlas had a nasty, fully loaded X0-16 Chaingun in its hands, perfect for turning pilots into hamburger. Especially ones that had destroyed half the facility.

As I was about to wall run and ultimately compromise my position, hoping that the pilot inside the chaingun toting Titan would have half a heart not shoot me and kill half his grunts, the thought of surrender reared its ugly head. I only had a few seconds before the cloak would give out. I was hopelessly outnumbered by a swarm of green jackets. Not to mention an Atlas Titan in close quarters. I assumed the options were die now or die later in a torture chamber.

Unnerving thoughts went through my mind when the active camouflage dissipated and I threw down my rifle. Gracie was a Militia grunt that turned and saw me first. The burnt slabs of skin on her face peeled off when she called to her other grunts. I smelt the fire from her burning Atlas. Jimbo, with his eye shot by a sniper, shouted for me to hit my knees and put my hands behind my head. I knew Harris was behind me putting my hands into makeshift cuffs behind my back. Tears streamed down my eyes when Alice raised her rifle butt and bashed me in the face.