Captain Evan Merko briefed Staff Sergeant Noah Ramirez on the plan. They were both fully kitted up, helmets in one hand, rifles in the other. Their third-generation battlesuits—powerful exoskeletons covered in light but extremely tough advanced ceramic armor—gave them futuristic samurai vibes.

  Ramirez was running First Platoon while his platoon leader healed up. Merko had never worked with the staff sergeant directly, but the two had known each other for a couple of years. As fellow Raiders, they had also both served under Filson long enough to know to expect crazy shit. As he wrapped up the briefing, though, Merko could see that Ramirez thought this plan was lunacy.

  “Suave should be here in a few minutes with whatever he can pull together from the Lobos. Then we’ll load up and head out. Any questions?”

  “Yeah. Just one question, sir.” Ramirez leaned in closer to the captain. He glanced furtively at the soldiers nearby. Scattered around the commandeered bus stop, the Raiders were doing last checks on their armored battlesuits and testing drone signal strengths. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Merko chuckled ruefully and shook his head. He knew he had to give Ramirez time to get his head around it and tried to project confidence. “I couldn’t make this up if I tried, Noah.”

  Ramirez leaned in closer. “So, we’re gonna infil through a supposedly secret underground Metro line, emerge from below to link up with Third Platoon—who is fucking surrounded, don’t forget—consolidate on their position while, and I love this part, the limp dicks on battalion staff figure out a way to extract us in time?”

  Sounds pretty stupid when he says it like that.

  But Merko nodded, trying to add a little swagger as he did.

  “That can’t be the whole plan, sir. Gotta be more to it?” Ramirez’s voice was hard. But his eyes were pleading. “And all we got is First Platoon and whatever scraps Suave can pull together?”

  Merko scratched the back of his neck. He was fired up back in the TOC listening to Filson, but was now finding the plan hard to sell. Even to himself.

  “The major asked for LMB drone support.” Merko shrugged. “But the factory liaison said they couldn’t operate in the Metro line. No signal underground.”

  Ramirez chuckled like he had heard a bad joke. “I knew those stupid-looking kangaroos were garbage.”

  The false smile dissolved from Ramirez’s face.

  “This is a bad idea, sir. Look around. Do you see any soldierbots?” Ramirez made a show of turning left and right and then looked back at Merko. “Third Platoon already took everything we had.”

  Merko glanced around, even though he already knew what he would not see.

  When a Centaur unit stages for an operation, it is a loud, dense, heavy-metal choreography of humanoid soldierbots bore-sighting weapons, confirming signal strengths, and downloading mission briefs.

  Not nearly enough of that was happening now.

  Centaurs were intended to be “Force multipliers,” bringing stupendous combat power to bear commanding and controlling drone and soldierbot forces. But the equation required drones and soldierbots to work.

  “You know as well as I do that you can’t hold ground with just aerial drones.” Ramirez was trying to keep his voice down, but in his anger, it spilled out of him in a hiss. “Almost all our soldierbots are on QRF with Outlaw Company. I mean, what the hell is Filson thinking? We’re gonna get slaughtered.”

  “Are we having a pity party?” A booming voice called from across the company area. Ramirez’s back straightened. “Because I want in, goddammit! I got things I wanna stand around and get a little sympathy for.”

  Merko spotted First Sergeant McGowan striding toward them and hoped his relief at the sight was not obvious to Ramirez.

  The tall black soldier’s face was stern beneath the thin, silvery augmentation scar that circled his shaven head, and his battlesuit was dented and pock-marked by near misses. No one knew exactly how far they went back, but everyone knew McGowan had been then-Captain Filson’s first sergeant when they were digging PLA out of artificial islands in the South China Sea. Now, since majors commanded Centaur companies, he was reprising his act as the essential real-world catalyst that turned Filson’s crazy operational visions into enemy-smashing realities, while keeping the soldiers of Raider Company alive. For as long as the American military has been around, those who have served know that an officer may command his company, but the first sergeant runs it. That was never more true than with Filson, McGowan, and Raider Company.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Stomping up to the pair, McGowan glared at Ramirez but addressed Captain Merko.

  “Sir, has your platoon sergeant completed all of his pre-combat checks?”

  “First Sergeant, I—” Merko tried to help.

  “Because I just passed several Centaurs and drones that are not ready to go.” The first sergeant leaned his face to within inches of Ramirez. “And Major Filson wanted us ready to move at 2300 hours.” He raised his arm as if checking his watch, but still didn’t take his eyes off Ramirez, who bit his lip in anger but looked straight ahead like a choirboy. “That’s in three minutes.”

  Ramirez blinked a few times, and his eyes narrowed.

  “Something you wanna say, Staff Sergeant?” McGowan asked, tilting his head as if really curious. “Cuz I’m all fucking ears.”

  “Um… No. No, First Sergeant.”

  McGowan nodded.

  “Sir,” Ramirez said to Merko through clenched teeth. “If you will excuse me.” He spun on his heels.

  Only when Ramirez had reached the soldiers of First Platoon did First Sergeant McGowan look at Merko.

  Merko smiled wearily. “He’ll be good, Top. He’s just getting his head around it.”

  “I know Ramirez well, sir,” McGowan said in a tolerant voice. “I know all my NCOs. Some need treats. Some need their bellies scratched. Ramirez does best when you whack him in the nose with a newspaper. It puts him in a fighting mood, which is where we need him.”

  Merko smiled, but kept his thoughts to himself.

  Now I’m trying to get my head around it also. We need ground forces.

  “Captain Suave is two minutes away, sir,” First Sergeant McGowan said.

  “Any idea how many he’s bringing?”

  “Fifty, if we’re lucky. Oh, and I’ll be coming on this one, sir.”

  “Well, I didn’t think you were wearing that worn-out battlesuit to prom.”

  McGowan chuckled. Merko liked the sound. He sounded unafraid.

  “It will be good to have you, Top,” Merko added. “You seen Major Filson?”

  “I thought I would find him here, sir.”

  Merko shook his head. “I haven’t seen him.”

  McGowan shrugged and turned to address the rest of First Platoon. “All right, Raiders!” His voice boomed through the old bus stop. “Time to load up! La-Di-Da-Di everybody! Let’s move!”

  The large metal roll-up doors rattled and banged as the maintenance crew threw them open. Battlesuited soldiers walked out into the night, a small menagerie of drones walking and flying beside them.

  Not enough.

  Captain Paredes arrived with his men as First Platoon spilled into the parking lot. Merko tried to count the Chilean soldiers, but they were walking in a gaggle that made it difficult. They split into groups and went to their assigned trucks.

  “Good to see you, Suave,” Merko said, shaking Captain Paredes’ hand.

  “You too, Evan.”

  “How many did you manage to pull together?”

  “Forty-eight, counting me,” Paredes said, a hint of apology in his voice.

  Merko nodded, not wanting to give voice to his concerns.

  Not enough. Not even close.

  Merko and Paredes watched their men get onto their assigned trucks. It was a five-minute drive to the Metro stop where they would start their underground trek. Merko was eager to get going and dreading it at the same time. He thought he heard something around the corner.

  Is that marching?

  It was coming from the direction of the motor pool.

  Merko shared a puzzled look with Paredes, then the two men turned to look toward the noise, as did several other Raiders.

  It was definitely the sound of marching troops.

  McGowan, about twenty meters closer to the sound, saw them first. He turned and looked at Merko, a mischievous grin on his face.

  Major Filson rounded the corner, followed by a group of M-47 soldierbots in full combat gear, bearing weapons. Walking five abreast behind the major, the column kept coming. Merko lost count at fifty Maulers. Next to the formation, in the platoon sergeant’s position, strode a soldierbot with a large, shiny dent across his face.

  It was Hatch.

  The Centaurs of First Platoon let out a loud round of “Hooah!” at the sight of the Maulers. They had fought with them before.

  Merko caught Ramirez’s eye across the bay. The platoon sergeant nodded to him and raised a fist as Merko did the math in his head.

  Add the Maulers to our own drones, and that gives each Centaur about eight platforms—air, ground, and Mauler—to fight with, over 150 shooters total, human and robot. Plenty enough to dominate a city block. We may survive this yet.

  “What are you gawking at, Raiders?” the First Sergeant yelled at the smiling Centaurs and Lobos as he walked back toward the trucks. “I said, load up! I want butts in trucks, now!” He gave Merko a wink as he walked by.

  Filson split off from the Mauler formation. They continued on to the trucks as he walked over to Merko, wearing a Cheshire Cat grin.

  Merko rolled his eyes. He knew the major liked to pull a rabbit out of his hat when everyone was watching. But he welcomed the sight.

  “Maulers are a nice surprise, sir. I have to say.”

  “To you, maybe. They won’t be to the PLA.” Filson put his hand on his Executive Officer’s armored shoulder as they walked to the trucks. “Now let’s go save Third Platoon’s ass.”