Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(44)
“DROP THE GUN,” Sergeant Philbrick’s voice thunders on maximum amplification, loud enough to make the nearby bulkhead shake with the sonic energy.
The MP sergeant looks up, his expression that of a panicked, remorseful kid whose prank has hurt someone. He drops his gun to the deck, where it lands with a dull thud. Then he raises his hands and pulls his head low between his shoulders. The two green targeting markers on his chest never waver.
The other MPs decide that freezing in place is an eminently wise course of action. Behind Philbrick and his fellow trooper, two more SI troopers in battle armor appear in the airlock opening, rifles at the ready.
“You fucking imbecile,” Sergeant Philbrick says when he steps between us and picks up the MP’s pistol. “Look what you’ve done. Nez, hand me a trauma pack.”
“Yes, Sarge.” The SI trooper next to Sergeant Philbrick lowers his rifle and reaches into his medkit pouch.
My left hand feels like it has been split in half with an axe, and it doesn’t look much better. I cradle it to my chest, look at it to assess the damage, and immediately wish I hadn’t. There’s a chunk of my hand missing, along with two fingers. Where my pinky and ring fingers used to be, there’s nothing left but powder-burned shredded meat. I must have had my finger right in front of the muzzle, and the expanding gases from the blast did as much damage as the three armor-piercing rounds that preceded them. It hurts so much that I can’t even scream, even though I want to.
“Hang on, Grayson.”
Staff Sergeant Philbrick takes the trauma pack Corporal Nez hands him. He peels the cover off with his teeth and slaps the whole thing onto my hand, mercifully covering the mess from sight. He kneads the pack into place to shape it to the wound area. I feel instant relief as the medication cocktail baked into the pack simultaneously numbs my hand and releases the fast-acting local painkiller.
“Shackle these assholes and let’s move,” Philbrick says to Corporal Nez. “That gunfire’s gonna draw attention. We’ll have a tactical team on our asses in a minute.”
“Copy that,” Corporal Nez says.
The SI troopers round up the MPs and use their own flex cuffs to shackle them together. When the troopers are done, the MPs are standing in a circle, attached by the wrists, with one of the station’s vertical support struts in their middle. The SI troopers take all the sidearms off the MPs, unload them, and throw them into a nearby garbage chute.
“Let’s move out. Back to the Foxtrot terminus. I’ll take lead. Nez, bring up the rear. Put Grayson and the others between us. You okay to move, Grayson?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. “Let’s go.”
When we move back to the airlock to the main concourse, I look back at the gaggle of MPs. The sergeant who blew off two of my fingers is just staring ahead at the support beam in front of him, as if he doesn’t want to meet anyone’s gaze for fear of inviting retaliation.
Just executing orders, I think. Ain’t that always our fucking absolution.
CHAPTER 12
It’s a hundred meters from the terminus of Echo concourse to the airlock at the end of Foxtrot concourse. We haven’t covered half that distance when the security alarm overhead goes off, an annoying two-tone trilling sound. Most of the civilians in the concourse have scattered already at the sight of the fully armed and armored SI troopers with combat demeanor, so we have this section of the concourse mostly to ourselves.
“This is a level-five security alert. All personnel, shelter in place and secure airlocks.”
Staff Sergeant Philbrick clears the corridor ahead with the muzzle of his rifle before waving us on. “Fifty meters. Let’s hustle.”
My hand is now pleasantly numb, and the painkillers have started kicking in, but I know that the pain will return before too long. For now, I run behind Sergeant Philbrick and next to Dmitry and Colonel Campbell, glad for the concentration of chemicals in my bloodstream that keeps that razor-sharp agony from registering in my brain.
“Major Renner sends her regards,” Sergeant Philbrick shouts over his shoulder toward Colonel Campbell. “She’s warming up the fusion plant right now. Ship’s at combat stations.”
“What about those SPs all over the ship?”
“Third Squad took care of ’em,” Sergeant Philbrick shouts. “Disarmed and secured in a storage room out on Foxtrot.”
We reach the airlock for Foxtrot concourse, which is a laminate hatch six meters wide. Sergeant Philbrick motions us to a halt. Then he waves Corporal Nez forward, and both of them check the concourse beyond in quick and efficient fashion.
“Clear,” Philbrick says. “Let’s move. Second Squad, we’re coming your way. Get ready to fall back to Indy.”
On the way back to the ship, Foxtrot concourse seems about three times longer than I remember it from the way into the station, despite the fact that we’re moving a lot more quickly for the return trip. I count the bulkheads we’re passing through—one, two, three, four, five. There were twenty-five of them on the way up from Indy.
Before Sergeant Philbrick reaches bulkhead number six, the airlock comes down from the top of the bulkhead almost silently and slams into place, barring our way to the far end of the concourse.
“Contact rear!” the private bringing up the tail end shouts. I see red and green targeting lasers bouncing off the walls of the concourse, and a second or two later, figures in dark blue armor rushing down the concourse behind us from the direction of the main part of the station.