“Clear,” repeated Brazier and Talborg in unison. Neither one of them liked the sound of being left to their own devices in the middle of semi-hostile Afghan territory.
“This is your show, Agents, but Sergeant Height is your den mother. Listen to him and you’ll all make it out just fine.” Arias spun his finger in a circle over his head without waiting for a response from the two engineers, silently letting his wall-eyed pilot know it was time to leave.
Sand, dust, and pebbles pelted Brazier in the windstorm left behind by the fast disappearing helicopters, leaving a grimy feeling in his skin that only a ton of high-priced exfoliant would be able to wash out.
“X marks the spot, people. This site is rally point one. Mark it on your head’s up display. Use it as your common ref-point…this is our ‘six.’ If things go FUBAR, this is where we fall back to,” lectured Height as the other marines went into autopilot around him. While this was old hat for the big man’s team, he still liked to run down the list, especially for the benefit of the civilians. There was nothing worse than a POG getting lost during an op and having to waste time and resources tracking them down.
“‘FUBAR,’ Sergeant?” Brazier had never heard the term before.
The entire battalion of soldiers chuckled as one.
“Fucked up beyond all recognition,” called out Private Grundy, one of the unit’s sharpshooters from beneath a helmet over-flowing with a mane of bright red hair that would have made Ronald McDonald green with envy. The good-natured, lanky soldier was nearly as pale as the moonlight. He seemed to be having as good a time as possible with the mission.
The other half of Grundy’s sniper team, Private Hochberg, added in a tone much more military in cadence, “It means things have gone tits up, Agent Brazier.”
Brazier couldn’t restrain a laugh that was a shade too loud and too mirthful given their position deep within enemy territory. “Is that an official US marine term, Private?”
“Yes, sir. It’s in the manual.”
A grunt from Sergeant Height ended the banter. “We’ll get you a copy when we get back to base. Now, if you ladies are done with your tea party, it’s time to get your game faces on. Hochberg, we need eyes on the compound.”
A small cloud of dust trailed behind the tall sniper as he bolted for a small rise completely barren of vegetation, and dropped flat with the long barrel of his gun trained on the subtle yellow light that spilled over the enemy’s high reinforced stone walls.
“Six Tangos on the wall—four gunners ready to direct fire on the gate and two walkers with AKs,” reported Hochberg without looking up from the night-vision scope of his rifle. “Action seems to all be up top. We’re clear to the southwest.”
“How does your team want to handle this, Agent Talborg?”
Gauss jumped in before the woman could answer. “Maneuver Beta-16.”
“Agreed,” added Cestus.
Brazier smiled. He’d seen the action performed in playback a handful of times, but the thought of getting to see it played out in person thrilled him to no end.
“We’ll just sit back and enjoy the show, then, Designate Gauss. Let us know when you’re ready,” said Height, silently signaling his men to attention with a series of hand gestures.
“Now is as good a time as any…our time under cover of darkness is limited. Sunrise is in forty-five minutes,” added Talborg, eager to get her two cents into the conversation.
The chrome eye of Gauss looked Cestus up and down, analyzing the cyborg fully. The two super soldiers stood nearly the same height, and were both broad shouldered and good looking. Cestus was the senior of the pair—he’d been in his late thirties at the time of his admission into Project Hardwired, a good ten years older than Gauss. Both sported tightly cropped military-style haircuts, and each was loaded with tactical paraphernalia and armaments from head to toe.
“You know the drill, Slick…gear off,” said Gauss even though the two cyborgs had been on numerous operations together and performed the maneuver many times. “And lose the gun.”
Observing from the sidelines as Cestus did as instructed, dropping every bit of equipment he had strapped to his back, caused Brazier to shake his head. Seeing the shiny new SCAR-H assault rifle hit the ground and send up an ashy cloud of dust increased his unease tenfold. The fidgety engineer couldn’t believe the cybernetic soldier was giving up his weapons so easily…not that Cestus really needed the gun—or any of the rest. The man was a living, breathing weapon on his own, and his computer-enhanced senses gave him senses well-beyond anything that could be issued by the United States government.